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Thursday, April 5, 2012

New Beginning of Love is All

I am liking this beginning a lot better. I like it more fictional and finding it much easier. It probably helps that the Hunger Games gave me some romantic inspiration and yesterday I was cheered up from Banana Day. So, here it is... the new beginning:

Love Is All


Well, I walk the river like it’s easier than land. The raspy voice of Tallest Man on Earth and the blaring guitar he plays seeps through Oliver’s Skull Candy headphones. The music distracts her from the hustle and bustle of the train atmosphere around her. It was going to be a long trip to Clifton Heights from Mountain Top. Yet, the song doesn’t distract her from her iPhone and text messages.

Oliver.

Oliver, her only desire. This feeling of lust was foreign to Oliver; in her twenty years of life she has never felt such a thing. Often in school she felt like an outcast—no boyfriend, but only crushes that left her dissatisfied. But, Oliver, Oliver, he was different. This difference scared her and left her vulnerable.

Oliver’s friend didn’t like him.





"He's a douchebag," Prim’s, as Primrose liked to be called, voice rings through Dahlia’s thoughts. The neon lights bring out the shocking hue of the blue walls. It reminds Dahlia of a rock star heaven with obnoxious walls, blaring music and alcohol that flows freely. Yet, despite the aura of the bar, the screen of the phone lights up and captures Dahlia's attention. Oliver. Oliver. Dahlia’s heart flutters and sinks at the same time.



"What's wrong," her friend had asked after witnessing the sudden drop of the martini glass with half emptied cosmopolitan. Dahlia doesn't know what comes over her, she never lets her friends get involved in her affairs, but she hands over her phone to her friend: "look." Dahlia gulps down the rest of her cosmopolitan, Adele's depressing voice echoing in the background, and snaps her fingers: "waiter! waiter! Jack and coke please!"



In the pale yellow light that shines above Dalia's table, muted by the neon and the mirrors in the room, Prim hands her back her phone. "Like I said, it still stands. He's a douchebag! He only said 'my bad' when he should be here! He's a sorry excuse for a human being!"



"He can go fuck himself!" Dahlia clenches her teeth and picks up her Jack and coke. "I'm so mad, I wish I could text," she thinks a bit - the alcohol was getting to her, "but, I won't." The humming of the phone softly plays as it’s being laid upon the table; it is off for the night.

“Let’s do an Irish Car Bomb!” Prim exclaims.

“Okay! But, I’m not done my Jack and coke.”

“It’s okay!” With that reply, Prim motioned for the order in and in one hot minute, the concoction of Guiness, Bailey's Irish Cream and Jameson. The Guiness was in a tall glass and the mixture of Bailey’s and Jameson were in a shot glass. They had to drop it in.

“On the count of three,” began Prim, “we’ll drop the shot glass in together.”

“Okay.”

“One…two…three…four…five” and both girls drop the shot glass in and chug. Prim finishes first.

“This is a song by Tallest Man on Earth,” Mike speaks through his microphone and begins to play his red Stratocaster. Dahlia knew Mike since they were 5; they went to camp together. Although their old ally bond was weathered by time, Dahlia still liked to show support for her old friend by seeing his band comprised of him and his two brothers from time to time.

Well, I walk upon the river like it's easier than land.

Something comes over Dahlia. A feeling between numbness and being hypnotized—the music’s ferocity with Mike’s riffing, the howling of Kyle’s bass and Jeremy’s drums and the lingering of Jameson and Bailey’s on her breath—puts Dahlia into a trance. It is the lyrics that remind Dahlia of Oliver. It occurred to her that she actually misses Oliver. A feeling of emptiness washes over her, this time not because of her depression, but because she missed someone she cares deeply about.

Prim is passed out; Dahlia sees from the corner of her eyes. That Irish Car Bomb must have hit her hard. Dahlia’s head was only pounding to the sound of music. Good, Dahlia thought, my mind can be at ease from her constant name calling of Oliver. She just doesn’t understand.

And Dahlia understood. Oliver works fifty hours a week—all nighttime shifts. She understands he works too much and needs rest. He’s a loser, Prim’s voice echoes in her head. No, he’s not, her own voice rings back; Dahlia wishes she had the courage to say, that this was a sacrifice she was willing to make.

4 comments:

  1. This seems more natural, like what you wanted to write anyway.

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  2. I like this. I'm glad you decided not to stop with this story.

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    Replies
    1. After I am done my travel stuff, I'll be working on it more. :)

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