It was a hot summer’s morning and having just finished up for the day, I’d decided to head into town for a nip at my favourite house of libations, The REDACTED & REDACTED. Sweat dripped from my brow as I entered. The jingle of my medals caught the attention of the tired-looking barkeep and brought to mind the bells from the cattle I’d confiscated from a farmhand a few hours earlier. I put in my order: a rum and cola, and took my favourite seat near the back of the room, away from any windows. I was on the hunt for something to help me while away the morning and that’s when I saw it.
It was beautiful and almost blinded me, a near-angelic aura streaking its way through a gap in my Aviators. I felt like I was underwater, bathed in a shimmering euphoria. Our eyes locked in an unflinching gaze and immediately, I was willed forward into conversation.
We began to speak both at once, a faux pas I later realised I hadn’t met with in years. The hours phased through one another and our conversation turned to existence. We swapped tales of triumphs and hardships, baring our souls to the world, if only it cared to see. Dual mounds of coconuts and miniature umbrellas became part of the furniture and as morning grew into afternoon, so too did grow our affection. ‘This was it,’ I thought. My life and yours. Two solitary beings, separate until this very moment. Now near indistinguishable as anything but a divine coalescence.
Evening arrived and we continued to talk. I watched over your shoulder as people poured into the bar and slowly began to huddle, whisper and stare, taken by the immovability of our love.
Night fell and so too did the embers from our cigars as they withered into dull stubs. It was time to leave. But not without you, my love. Never again would I be alone, forced into embrace with my own thoughts and serenaded only by the dull hum from a nearby CB radio.
As we turned to leave, a wave of passion took me and I took hold of you before the world could enact its cruel desire to cut short our time together. We left in step, you at my side. A grand lovers’ exit, quite firmly stage right. And though eyebrows were raised as we walked out to the street, we heard almost nothing, barely even the barkeep:
“… that’s the third bloody mirror he’s taken this week”.