Dialogue Essays - The Bar :: Dialogue Conversation Essays

Dialogue Essays - The Bar It doesnt take presbyopic for lives to come together or to come apart. Just a fewer short moments in time, time that is subjective, objective, judging or not judging. cryptograph re whole(a)y cares about it. It moreover happens. It doesnt take long. It is happening all over the world and no wiz up to now notices. No one wants to notice. Because they all have their own secrets that theyll never tell. She meets him in a bar. She is languishing at the scuffed up bar, one of those places where the work weary retreat later on they site in their eight hours, or ten hours, or twelve, depending on the person, depending on the job. She sips her Bud Light from the bottle because it gives her a sense of sought after strength, the kind of strength she doesnt possess and she can plainly execute through illusory enactment. She has no interest in meeting a man, or a woman, or any breathing entity at all. She just wants to be left to her own thoughts, thoughts whi ch she doesnt care to share with herself allow entirely another human being. She cant escape the peck feeling that time is running out and she better damn well(p) do something quick about the situation. Take me home with you. Why should I? Because I give a killer massage and you look as if you need one. Overheard conversation. Will she step into it? Suddenly, she doesnt want to be alone anymore. The dark night outside is closing in on her, reminding her of all the empty spaces in the universe. She pictures in her head the vastness of the Grand Canyon, only to have it metamorphosis into her own kitchen. The kitchen with the floor tiles the color of dead rotters and peeling in the corners. In the center of it is the table that rocks when you lean on it, even though she keeps cramming the thrice-folded Queen of Hearts under its leg. At the table sits her economise of twenty-one years working diligently on the daily crossword puzzle puzzle. Occasionally he flips ashes from his c onstant cigarette on the dead lemon floor. She tries to push her mind back to the red rock canyon, tries to conjure up the feeling of vastness and purity and silence of nature doing its thing. It is too late. She reaches for her briefcase and stands up unsteadily on her black pumps.