Hit a Guy With Glasses
In one hand was a glass of whisky. It had been there but minutes. It had been needed much longer.
The other hand was marked with streaks of black. It was soot. It was nothing. It hadn't come from fighting forest fires or confusing arson for acts of passion. It had come from lighting candles and placing them at random around the room. The soot was stubborn and refused to leave, insisting instead that it be smeared across knuckles and up finger thick rivers to where they became a confluence- a mighty stream only to disappear beneath the tunnel of an unflattering shirt-sleeve.
It felt good to be dirty and sipping whisky. It made it feel like the fight was over. There is a clarity there, between harsh words and smooth bourbon, that few ever know. It is a moment and as moments go it is one of the better.
But the fight had not yet begun and the harsh words were unsure if they would ever escape, but waited anxious and uncomfortable as waves of whisky flowed past on heated screams, taunting and angry for having been caught.
The candles had curfews and places to be. They left the room suddenly and without regret. The words grew drunk and drowsy and the clarity began to fall into question.
One hand poured more moments from the bottle while the other held still the glass.