We re-met at the masturbatory celebration of self on the twenty-seventh floor loft of another new and temporary acquaintance. I arrived drunk with a pocketful of uppers; encased bathroom exchanges with other martyred artists and demonic socialites soon following. It was then a luscious space of pretentious paintings, gargled guffaws and finally personal and familiar thoughts of suicide once the balcony was at last free of pretenders
The tiny blue-green talk of the town had just abruptly kicked in; my mouth dry from its uncentered effects as the spin from over-priced glasses of white wine distorted my vicious visions of the living room. Nevertheless your aged and hindered glow struck without warning; my perceptions on the even soon downshifting to splotchy memories of our faded former selves.
We were suddenly the bored and forgotten children of conquistadors again; our contributions to the world of free-roam exploration consisting of standard variables.
There were the damp and rampaged hardwood floors drenched with the somber remains of cheap cigarette ash and fermented bubbles. The unorganized stacks of torn envelopes and dated publications some clipped specifically for the refrigerator door. The uncut backyards and little litter boxes filled with landmines and then covered before ultimately being forgotten at the sound of a passing sports car. The claustrophobic bedrooms scattered with discarded hardbacks and underwear that was clearly visible through the worn threadbare holes in your favorite pair of blue jeans.
And finally the apologetically empty look at what would be our last hurrah. It was from across a similar distance; lined with paint-stained bodies that we both took pride in ignoring. Their polished routine was idyllically stale; the two of us escaping to the back cement steeps for nicotine and last rites.
"I'm not exactly sure if I'm going to miss this" You said, hands and fingers extended toward starlight.
"I know I won't." I replied coldly with an uneasy sip from the bottle.
"You're just saying that to make this all go down smoother." You grinned drunkenly as I tried not to appear lost within such an expression.
"And you're just talking to me because I'm the only guy you haven't fucked out of our friends."
You were then no sadder than usual; acting arousingly offended by my glares as you leapt from island to couch cushion in the dim remains of our safe haven. I walked home alone, shit faced as per usual, and grateful to finally be the guy placing myself at a distance out of shear necessity.
It was this same kind of undaunting need to flee that made me second-guess my staggered positioning on the balcony as you started to kiss cheeks and graze shoulders. I waited, nervously suspicious of my own thoughts and posture before we converged by the bar and began with the padded round of questioning.
"So I'm ashamed to say that I haven't really been keeping up with your work." You started honestly.
"It's okay. Neither have I."
You then giggled and fixated on the tall gentleman across the room, smoking a black cigar. "I think I got bored with it when you stopped using me as a source for inspiration." You ironically joked.
"And yet you still can't properly handle the attention."
"Are you kidding? I shocked this room back to life ten minutes ago."
"Well it's just too bad I'm already dead." The phrase was whispered a hair before I started walking away from you.
"Oh you're so fucking deep now Jonas!" You shouted through the static. "The all-perceptive writer with am halo of tragedy above your shoulders..."
I didn't respond or act in the least bit unhinged by such noises, but rather parted the sea and found my wife, yammering about city-life with a lower-level CoS enthusiast. It would be the last night I enjoyed fucking her before the dust cloud settled around us, and all I could remember was the sound of your voice from across the room.