There's so much you want to say, but you hold it all in.
You steal a glance at her, a figure of regret, trapped in days past,
weeping over her loss.
You take her hand, but it is, after all, not
yours to hold, and doesn't seem right. At the moment,
nothing seems right. The vodka kicks you in the brain, and once
again your mind struggles against irrationality; straining to avoid that
nonsensical slur, so characteristic of those who've had a drop too much.
Through the pea-soup of your conciousness, you are intensely aware of her pain,
and part of yourself hurts with her.
She's a good friend, and up until
the past hour-mark or so, you've always thought of her as such, nothing
more. You try to say something comforting, but it doesn't come out right,
and would slam your head against the wall, if you only had the energy to do
so. Her tear-streaked face, framed by dark, shoulder length hair,
shadowed by the warm fuzzy glow of a dying halogen bulb, a
picture of self-reproach. It isn't even her fault... you know that
much. You so want to make her believe, to make her
She withdraws her hand, and sinks once again into
introspection. You just sit there, dumb as a hammer, hoping to God
your presence is making some sort of difference...
The minutes pass, your
mind clears, and the tears on her face dry, though not totally - leaving
barely tangible stains on her beautiful cheeks. You suggest taking a walk,
which seems to be the only sensible thing to do given the circumstances.
As two lonely figures walk briskly into the cold, dark night, you
wonder if you're ever going to find the right words to say what you
truly feel - at least in this lifetime.