A final film, somewhere in the dark, two beauty queens on a crowning adventure.
Been together for days now but She’s still desperate to steal glimpses. Can it be possible that is how He really looks?
Sweet poison. Bottle it.
The lights go down. If ever a facial structure could promise paradise, She thinks as she looks away, if ever. The crap spilt on the floor and even the revolting student by the door burn up with human love.
The other ‘she’ went to die in her lower middle class grave. Had cried blandly. Constantly. For nothing. There is no justice in matters of beauty. ‘She’ had no chance with Him from the beginning. It wasn’t her fault. But ‘she’ got what she deserved (for even trying). Why, ‘she’ is beyond repair now.
The show could go on and on… let it fall off the edge of time.
He licks the last bit of his ice cream and She gets an acute shot of pleasure. The film ends. The screen lights up all the people in the room but more importantly His eyes.
Outside it is cold and desolate and everyone else looks ugly again despite some even trying not to. She clutches His hand tighter. Vanity has brought us together and saved our lives, this she sees now, but look how it could only destroy theirs. She would never be like them anymore. They were just the stumps of scorched trees. And He was the fire.
The train journey home. His stop is first. See the hills in the far background enclosing their world of black houses and confusing city nights. They are almost alone in the silent carriage. The light drizzle suddenly and inexplicably gives a feeling of intolerable emptiness.
She dreams that they are kissing on a boulevard of sunlit belonging she bought for Him with her own sweat and blood. She wishes just to make something for Him from this nothing. She dreams that her small weary past would die and the broken hours would mend. To have only the pleasure they find. She dreams He could understand even better than He already does the glamour of her mind, or more importantly, the beauty of her face.
All the power to Him. At times she wants to be Him completely, oh, the things she would do to herself!
The train slows and then stops. In still affluence, His small town slumbers. He gets up and says see you tomorrow.
She watches His silhouette disappear into the night, His face quietly sublime and pretty, yet handsome and strong. Above average-height, not tall, so much more than a fucking angel, or a burning devil.
I’m back, She thinks. A sojourn to whatever they call normal happiness has now ended and like a moth to a flame I have flown back home to hurt and craving.
The conductor seems content though what at She cannot possibly understand. The train pulls away and she sits back. In atomic detail She recalls His profile.
Past terraces and emptying pubs, She cries for all of the long walk back home.