On Hope

reposted from a lost journal - Nov. 25, 2004 at 06:25 PM

[... and how most of it is all wishfull thinking]

She found herself in a bar, half a lit cigarette in her lips, her fingers tipped with ash specks. She had a lukewarm Martini in front of her, its glass beaded with dew to the clear liquid's edge. New faces danced to her muted background while the bartender dried shot glasses at the corner of her eye.

She lowered her cigarette and inhaled the hazy atmosphere. It felt like her first breath, like gasping after a long dive. The warm club air filled her chest and the scene came alive, the thumping music resonating in her lungs, resuscitating her still heart while the club lights cut through the smoke and into the dark mirrors.

The bar counter was cold, and she was alone. As she thought to turn and watch the heaving mass of dancing people, she felt warm hands slip over hers from behind, and lift the cigarette from between her fingers. A man was lighting his cigarette with hers. His other arm still over hers, as he looked her in the eye...