With one last contortion of dull relief, he dragged his hand limply from his trousers, and shook off the remaining cloudy semen. It seemed to coast through the air, casting still-frame rainbows as the jaundiced shimmer of an incongruous sulphur streetlight fell through the spray.
It landed in a rain puddle. Seperately, like linseed oil dripped into lemonade.
Lemonade. For Christ's unholy fucking sake, it was just a dream! Such a shame that the most picture-perfectly profound situations occur so readily in dreams.
He approached from behind - of course, he had to, because that was where his consciousness alighted: on him approaching from behind. Sitting in front of him. Her back turned, naturally; the couch was, after all, facing away from him. Blueish, the couch. Hazy, the air. Smoke, presumably. Walked past her to the bar. A threadbare beige-tar carpet, patterned with what the casual observer would perceive as a carefully designed Fibonaccic system of nicotine-stained stub marks, although of course it was really an accidental Fibonaccic system of nicotine-stained stub marks. Didn't realise this, though: casual observer. Bar without craic: ceiling low to preclude dancing thereon. Splash marks, now ingrained, never wiped, mainly dark ale, hopefully tomato juice. Probably not, though. Signage on crusted draught taps directed into bar. All ales off. No matter, barman off too. It would seem. Window, but no view: mist. Turning, he buckled at a momentary nightmare vision of a heaving bar full of silent archetypes eating, drinking, archetypes, these people don't actually exist, no, stereotypes, hillbilly-beans, mime-wine, ploughman-ploughman, businessman-spam, horse-amphetamines, lumberjack-crack, buckled, looked up, saw her, vision dissipated like the smoke trailing from her mouth. Her mouth. He longed. Hurt mind. He looked, she smoked. Turning back to the bar, a meanly-measured pint of lemonade had arrived next to a slick of something shiny. Taking the lemonade, he wanted at her. They were alone, he was almost certain, and then.
Lemonade doesn't do that. Side of face wet, stinging. Air consists of dust. Sitting up now, air clearer due to distance from tar-carpet. Hoisting self up joinery to attain bar, his face crumples in pain as tears evacuate his bleeding - no, but nearly - eyes. They-don't-exist laugh at him, he can't make himself heard, and she, she - he won't admit that to himself, of course. Of course not. Of course. Shaking the lemonade and lonely useless longing from his hair, the laughers evaporate like the queer lemonade has from the stain-carpet. Looks again. She half-lies on the couch, fine hair of inderterminate hue hanging independently from her head-face. Smoke curls from her nostril (only one) as she stares pleadingly at him. Half-lying. Shoes on the floor in front of her, half-lying on the couch, blueish. Half-empty pint of same lemonade in a hand, obviously more carefully sipped, half-cut, half-lying, with half-empty pint on blueish with indeterminate and he wanting and she in no fit state but he did it any-.
Mist pushes on him. Lighting a pathetic, damply rolled dog end now. Walking away. Left his shoes in front of the bench. Nobody else in public.
The Earlybird stares down the blackened footpath at the incongruous sulphur glow, like afterlife myths, like goals, dreams, dreams, dreams. Dreams.
The Earlybird catches the darkness, fucking nothings with his hand.