Look At The Damage

Tuesday, November 17th.

"She's a liability," one says as his cigar protrudes from the crevice of his mouth.

"She's unreliable," another says while taking a sip from his cold, black mug.

"What do you think, Lance?"

I look up, awakening from the day dream that is my life.

"I don't get paid to think."

They smile a thick grin and slide money down the table.

"You're goddamn right about that."

"Consider it done," I mutter as I gently press the paper into my black jacket.

I rise from the diner booth and all the sounds around the table come at me all at once.

I hear the bells from the cash register.

The scuffles from heavy-footed businessmen across the checkered floors.

The irrelevant chatter about government issues and occupational fatigue.

It was that time again.

The door slams behind me and the dark sky glares into my eyes.

I hear the moans of the wind whisper into my ears as I walk down the sidewalk, ignoring the stench that grows around me. A city that was once seen to be the catalyst for dreams is only a grave for those too foolish to bet on it.

I go into my vehicle.

Black as the night.

Lowering the rear-view mirror, I see the abysmal exterior beckoning me like the workingman's stark cries for a break.

I press down on the brake and rotate the key in it's ignition.

I become part of the night.

As I glide through the streets, I get that pit in my stomach that always comes, but never really goes away.

15 minutes to 8 and I arrive at the house. Normally they give me a picture, something to know who I'm looking for. But they knew that I'm all too familiar with her.

I snatch the keys out of the ignition and toss them in my pocket and exit into the night.

The pale moon bleeds its pearly glow throughout the sky, lighting the way to the house.

The street lights twitch like the veiny arms of a man delegating the needle over the bottle.

Her house is a few blocks away and that feeling in my stomach is slowly fading away before its inevitable return.

Her abode flashes in the moonlight.

I examine the doorbell before rapping on her rose colored door.

A few taps at the door yields success as she pulls it open and looks at me.

"Oh, it's you Lance."

Her eyes dart past my head, toward the street.

"Why don't you come inside?"

I enter and I'm immediately flirted with by sensual aroma of roses.

"Come have a seat at the bar, Lance, you look tired."

"No, thank you."

She's wearing a red dress as dark as bloodly cherries. Her hair is long and brown. It crinkles down the sides of her fragile shoulders.

I look at her face and she grins while bending over to retrieve two wine glasses that were already placed on a table nearby.

"You were expecting me?"

My question dances through her ears as she begins pouring wine into the glasses.

"Do you know why today is so special, Lance?"

My eyebrow rises with the folds in my face.

She grabs a glass and sits down, crossing her legs.

"Because tomorrow, today will be a distant memory."

"Every second is a memory, what is your point?"

"Oh, Lance, you were always so pragmatic," she says with a smile.

"Why don't you have a seat and drink with me?"

"No, I'll stand."

She sighs.

"I know there's a huge elephant in the room," she says while placing the wine glass on the table.

"Then, you know why I'm here?"

"Of course, darling. It was only a matter of time."

I index my coat, slowly.

"Do you ever just look in the mirror and realize that the person you always wanted to be was actually staring right at you from the very beginning," she whispers.

"If you spent half that time being who you wanted to be instead of chasing reflections, you'd hardly have to the time to realize it."

"But if you don't take the time to see who stares back at you, how can you ever improve?"

"That's enough," I say, bringing an abrupt end to our exchange.

"Lance," she utters.

"What is it?"

"Just promise you'll make me look pretty in death," she says with one exhale.