A woman sits alone at a bar. Filled with melancholy, enduring the minutes that passed. The swoosh of her whiskey on edge of her glass, her fingers feeling the ice as it melts. She brings the glass to her lips, salivating the taste of a soft burning down her throat. A memory of years ago enters her mind and she wonders, deep among the lucid days in prime youth, remembering the days when the rain inside her would not stop, dragging her through the mud and stained sidewalks, a desire of covetous fire the kind that dictated her dances under a full moon. She thinks to herself as a different woman than she was, a salacious woman, who would perform any task that she set her mind to. Her eyes search the room for a moment, noticing sorrowful smiles and incessant chatter, the kind that makes you ponder within the domesticity that exists in a world like today. Another swig of whiskey, the bartender approaches with a pour, tenderly, the liquid of potential indemnity. No longer the same woman she was before but that was accepting all her choices to this point, time that could not be retrieved. No longer a woman that contemplated on mere abundance of emotion, the tears that fell on her pillow in the late hours of the night, feeling ominous inside herself. The constant remorse for choices made, a dejected mind that circled around her physical body like a vulture. In a moment, her life flashes before her eyes and she thinks to herself: I am not the same woman. In fact, she was a challenge, a downhearted drive to feel the seconds that passed, cherishing to a whim of nothingness. That was the point: accepting a deathless death among mortality. Another sip, another touch of the thigh, goosebumps rising along her arms, another sip, seconds lost, no way to go back.
I am not the same woman, she whispered.
I am just a bit better than before.
The bartender flagged down for the bill, dropping bills on the blackbook, a nod of the head, her feet already out the door.
She could see her breath in the air, a chill went down her spine, cold stillness that made her feel real. Trodding down the avenue, hands in lined pockets, hood on the head against the dreadful wind of the city. The worrisome battle of making it through the throngs of the night. The sounds amongst her felt faint, the neon signs almost frightened her. Tempted to stop inside the deli and get a coffee, she took a moment. As she steps to the well lit doors, her eyes almost hurt, like sirens of reddish flare making their way, throppled and masked through speeds of flight. She ordered a coffee and watched the man pour inside the cup, a little milk, a little sugar, reaching for the top and a satchel to finish it. The bills on the counter appeared almost lonely, she thought of the travels of single dollars made throughout the world, the memories that they carried. No idea of why she had conviction over miniscule ideas such as dollars but they came and went inside her head as if there was no other way to think. She grabbed her coffee and it warmed her hands for the rest of her walk. Her keys in her pocket were almost cold, stuffing themselves through the lock with the touch of her hand. The streets were oddly quiet, almost eerie and dead.
Finally home, she placed her coffee on the counter, flung her jacket across the chair that lived at a tall table. Today was not meant to be seized, only remembered as a nothingness amongst the days that exist with a clock that never stopped. A glance at the cable box read 2:38 am. What an illusion in her mind, to think that she could potentially avoid arriving home at such a regretful hour. A walk to the washroom, ripping off her clothes that felt like they had been on for hours. A hot shower was just what she needed. She ran the water and felt the steam pour out against the air, a foggy mirror made her feel safe, like her own personal sauna. A delightful skin tight yelp, feeling the hot water trickle down her breasts, her back, her hands, and her neck. Her hair was soft, almost as if she had been given a serum of fullness that carried on the crown that was so cherished. Her eyes closed and gave herself a moment to breathe in and out, deeply inhaling her own bodily scents, a lathering of soap that she rubbed across her supple flesh. A woman that felt so different, yet so sane. Thoughts racing in her brain, the intellectual possibilities felt endless. She wondered why she had to live with such contemplation, so many choices, such little time, a rush here or there, tick tocking to the fastened beat of her heart. The hours got away from her as if they did not want to give her a chance to catch up. A fun way to race against time due to her own inhibitions that never seemed to go away.
Drying off with a gray towel, hair dripping wet down her back, a wrapping of self, the stretch of her arms against the misty mirror, the look of her own eyes seeing herself as she stood in time. The lock of her own eyes, a mere existence that has not stopped. A deathless death to seize the night or day, an inch closer to her dreams that were slow in the making. A desire to do many things, but how dreadful that tick tocking that made her feel anxious instead.
I am not the same woman, she whispered.
Her reflection stared back at her, a sneer of temptation. Taking control of her own spirit, a making of hot flesh and dripping steam against the walls, what a stain of existence felt like. Except she should not think in that fashion, for she was merely the same as any other who lived amongst the Earth, worshiping moon cycles and stars that were hardly seen in a city like this. Revealing her body to herself, she gratified her own eyes, a turn of lust to a body that she owned. A curve here, there, along the lines of her belly that made her feel like a sculpture. The monumental moment in the dead of night. Cherishing one’s body to that of a God, meeting with futuristic temptations in an artists’ life. She stared back at herself among the releasing steam, a cold tingle reached her skin.
Leave a Reply