I am sitting there and being pleasant and polite and giggly and he starts arguing about talentless fucks and that art as a whole has gone downhill and it's all cheese and hacks have taken over everything, but all I'm doing is enjoying the booze in my hand. I state my case that "art truly is in the eye of the lover or buyer, and that's ok", but oh, no... that's not ok. That's wrong. I argue a little more, a little louder, a little sharper, but I realize I just want to enjoy this evening and the sun and so I relent a little, thinking about things I forgot to do today, mentally listing, and one of those is buy Banks tickets. Then I mention how it's so weird we're not at Dave right now and how, that we should be. Then it really begins. It actually began before that, but that's when my brain explodes.
"I'm so sick of Dave, you, me, us, we've seen him a hundred times and he never gets worse or better, it's just the same fucking thing..." and ....as his mouth keeps moving, his voice is trailing off, it starts. I'm staring at his perfect face and the violins of The Stone start. They start their faux classical intro. His voice is no longer there. He's smiling at me and talking and everyone at the table is joining in and I'm making corresponding facial expressions, but the classical vibe has faded and all I hear is the furious, precise, desperate, notes of guitar with violin behind it..like a bee hive. My head is becoming a bee hive. So appropriate as my name, and my monogram, are a honey bee, but still so inappropriate as now ALL I am hearing in my head is I've this creeping suspicion that things are not as they seem. And he keeps talking and joking, and his face is as handsome as ever and people are eating it all up, but all I'm thinking of is every shitty thing he's ever said to me or done to me, but then as it goes on yes I have done wrong, but what I did I thought needed be done, I swear, and I soften. And he looks at me, and he makes that face. As if he just now noticed I was actually pretty. And I know exactly what I look like right then.
I know that setting sun directly on my face, with my eyes wide open, is my very best light. My eyes look almost all white, As heavy as stone and as blue as I go, and the red in my hair is fire and the blond in my hair is gold and my happy face with stern, angry eyes is probably my very best face, according to him. And the song just gets louder and louder and I was just wondering if you'd come along to hold up my head when my head won't hold on and I'll do the same if the same's what you want, If not I'll go, I will go alone he just holds my gaze and looks at me as if that moment will last our whole lives and in the next moment he's gone, a pile of snickers at some terrible joke someone else makes and my eyes dart around wondering if I can just leave - I will run and I'll be ok. And my head swims and swirls, but then I take another drink and I check my phone to see my father has called me and I draw in a deep smiley breath and I remember I'm fine, but I was just wondering if you'd come along, hold up my head when my head won't hold on. I'll do the same if the same's what you want; If not I'll go I will go alone.
The song plays on, I hear nothing else, I look over at the sunset and I feel his hand creep to my back, comforting, claiming, but my eyes stay on the sunset and the breeze pushes my hair, and the song pounds on and I hate not being there live and I want to bust out of my skin, or be figure skating and it all crescendos in my head and I need so to stay in your arms, see you smile, hold you close, and it weighs on me, as heavy as stone and a bone chilling cold and I look back to him. Lock his eyes again.
Everything I love and hate about him swirls and I wonder if this is what things are just supposed to feel like. If this is what it means to be committed to someone and a life. But, mostly, I wonder how the fuck I got here and get the feeling that I'm on the fucking moon and feel as though I wasn't meant for this, I was meant to be somewhere else, someone else, who lets things fly out of them onto paper or canvas or ice or the ballet studio, or the pitch, or the bed or all of the above. One thing I know is that I was not meant to be right here, at this time, sipping champagne on a patio with people I do not love, and how, most of all I was just wondering if you'd come along ..tell me you will.... and my eyes close, cutting his lock on them and I dip my head as a sea of guitar and violin take me away ....
I will wake up tomorrow pleasant and giggly all over again. Before my hangover sets in.
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