I started to squeeze my head into the half empty beer bottle. Slimy mass of lost friends and sad songs dripping from my ears and nose as the thick smoke filled my eyes.
- Hey? – At the sound of the voice I looked to the side. Crushed and crooked, left eye hanging loose.
- Hi – The girl was pretty. Short hair, short dress, short sentence. Her smile was huge against the background of fuzzy things that were meant to be fuzzy, and her eyes were of sharp blue and movements, too reactive for a drunkard’s lair.
- Why are you juicing your head into that half empty beer bottle?
- Because… you know… The squeezing into paper sheets didn’t really work for me. People said it was rambling and mumbling and… it’s my head you know? Maybe the beer bottle will like it, plus the leftover booze will probably round the edges of my pointy thoughts. That’s why things sound better when you’re drunk… ‘cos they’re rounded, you see?
- Yea? I see what you mean. Do you want a kiss?
- Are you sure? You need one.
- No I don’t.
- – She crossed her arms and looked stealthily at the beer bottle of thoughts and warm liquid.
- What?- Like a cat she jumped of her chair, grabbed the bottle and drank it all to the last drop. Then she turned her back to me and left through the front door, tailed by a shroud of smoky substances.
I saw this girl again later, three months later to be precise. She was writing, squeezing herself onto that old napkin through a plastic pen with a name of some bedbug infested 1 star piece of shit yellow walled hotel on it. She had a half empty beer bottle next to her and was wearing an even shorter dress than the first time. I know what you’re thinking…. I talked to her, I did, and yes I most certainly read it. You know what I realized? I realized that we, humans, as a selfish, storytelling, rights demanding, comfort and pleasure searching, little species are all, and always will be, some really shitty fucking writers.
“And left her with an invitation to the blues”