"Do you really love me?"
"Yeah"
"How can I know?" - She rests her head on my shoulder.
"Believe me, I love you"
"You don't really show it" - Her hair is so fragrant.
"I try to" - I lie.
"I don't think you do"
"I love you. You're awesome"
"Am I?"
"Yeah"
We sit on the bench. I'm smoking my last cigarette of the last pack I have. For some reason, she doesn't really mind the smoke and the stench. Her head is resting on my shoulder, her hair flowing down. Her eyes are closed, but her ears are clearly wide open. The night is near, the sun is setting behind us. The sky is a strange color, a color I can't define or explain. There are few clouds, floating like marshmallow piles.
Her breathing's getting slower. Apparently, she is asleep. I start thinking about what she said before: why does she doubt my love so much? I really like her. Or do I? Yeah, of course I do. I mean, I can't really stand being far from her for a long time. And when she isn't there, I always think of her. But, I mean. She is my first love, and maybe I just don't know what love is, and I'm confusing the feelings I'm having with love.
Oh who cares? As long as she loves me. She loves me, right?
Of course, what am I thinking?
The night is beautiful, the darkness is so soothing. Even the cold is nice. You know how when it's really cold, you feel your nostrils freeze up inside? Yeah. That's the kind of feeling I have now. The feelings of nostrils freezing up. I like the cold. But I don't like feeling the cold metal of my pistol. Today I'm not wearing a holster. I'm sick of holsters. They're too big, too bulky. Who wear holsters anyway?
Fuck, a car passes. She stirs and wakes up.
"Damn. I dozed off. Why didn't you wake me up?"
"You're beautiful when you're asleep"
"You're not"
"I guess not. But you are."
"You're just saying it"
"No"
"Stop playing this silly game"
"What game?"
"You know."
"No"
"Whatever. Just forget about it"
"It's cold outside. Wanna go in?"
"Go in where?"
"Some bar. I need to get a drink"
"OK"
We stand up and walk toward a bar called "Brandy's". What a corny name. But they serve good stuff. We walk in. There's live music tonight. Someone's playing the piano. Really bad, happy tunes. I hate happy tunes. She loves happy tunes. She smiles at the musician, and starts nodding her head with the music. I don't like this side of her. But I love her.
I sit on the bench. I realize my cigarette has been put off by the moisture. There's not much to light anyway. I toss it in the ashtray. The bartender comes. He offers me another cigarette. I take it. I like cigarettes. They make me feel so comfortable, so serene. I like the feeling of the smoke going up to my brain, and choking it. I hate thinking, and it's one of those things that helps when I want to stop thinking.
"What will it be tonight, sir?"
Don't you hate fake respect? You know, when people call you "sir". What's the point anyway? Can't they just ask you what you want? They're like machines.
"I'll take some vermouth"
"And what about the lady?'
"Whiskey and soda for me"
"I'll be right back"
He looks like a fucking peacock. With his fancy pants, stupid neck tie, and white ironed shirt. I hate people with ironed shirts. What's the point anyway? She wears ironed shirts. I hate that side of her, too. But I love her. She's looking at me. Why?
"Is something wrong, Spike?"
"No"
"You look gloomy. What's wrong? You can tell me"
"I know I can. I just don't want to"
"Why not?"
"I hate it when you're worried or sad. I like you smiling. You're so beautiful when you're smiling"
She smiles.
"See, you just smiled. That's beautiful" - I lean toward her.
The bartender brings the drinks. Such bad timing. Did he do it on purpose or something? I hate bartenders. They have bad timing. I see someone reading the paper near the bar. I try reading the back of it, but I can't. Then I see a picture. I shut my right eye, and look at it. Then I shut my left eye, and look at it again. The guy sees me doing this, and moves. What's wrong with him? She softly touches my hand.
"Your hand is cold, Spike"
"You're right"
"I'm worried"
"About what?"
"I don't know. Don't you ever feel worried for nothing? You know, just the air around you weighs down, you can't think straight? Have you ever felt that way?"
"Not really"
She smiles again.
"Beautiful"
"What?"
"Nothing. You're beautiful"
For a whole hour we stay in the bar. The vermouth's bad. The music's bad. I hate the bartender. The guy with the paper is still reading it. Now he's discussing politics with the guy next to him. He points at a picture. I hate people who do that. What's so interesting about news? Why do people wait so eagerly for news? I know someone who wakes up at 5 AM just to read the morning paper before going to work. It's like as if the world's gonna turn inside out in his sleep.
"Wanna go to my place?" - Her voice is charming. Masculine, but charming.
"Yeah"
"Let's go"
We walk. There's rain. I get wet. She gets wet. She looks even more beautiful when she's wet. I hate being wet, I feel like a cat when I'm wet. A car passes by again. I hate the car that passes by.
She opens the door with her key. Inside, her apartment feels like a criminal's apartment. The air is stuffy, almost reluctant to let you in. You feel a hand pushing you back. Then she finds the switch, and with the shining of the light, you go in. We go near the window. Tomorrow's approaching. I'll soon have to go meet with Vicious, continue the operation we started yesterday.
"When this is over, I'm leaving the syndicate"
"You'll be killed"
"I'll let them say I'm dead"
"I'll be waiting at the graveyard. Of course, I will be alive"
"I. can't come with you"
"Come with me. We'll leave here.We'll escape from this world"
"And then what are we going to do?"
"We'll just live a life of freedom somewhere. Just like watching a dream."
"Yeah"
"How can I know?" - She rests her head on my shoulder.
"Believe me, I love you"
"You don't really show it" - Her hair is so fragrant.
"I try to" - I lie.
"I don't think you do"
"I love you. You're awesome"
"Am I?"
"Yeah"
We sit on the bench. I'm smoking my last cigarette of the last pack I have. For some reason, she doesn't really mind the smoke and the stench. Her head is resting on my shoulder, her hair flowing down. Her eyes are closed, but her ears are clearly wide open. The night is near, the sun is setting behind us. The sky is a strange color, a color I can't define or explain. There are few clouds, floating like marshmallow piles.
Her breathing's getting slower. Apparently, she is asleep. I start thinking about what she said before: why does she doubt my love so much? I really like her. Or do I? Yeah, of course I do. I mean, I can't really stand being far from her for a long time. And when she isn't there, I always think of her. But, I mean. She is my first love, and maybe I just don't know what love is, and I'm confusing the feelings I'm having with love.
Oh who cares? As long as she loves me. She loves me, right?
Of course, what am I thinking?
The night is beautiful, the darkness is so soothing. Even the cold is nice. You know how when it's really cold, you feel your nostrils freeze up inside? Yeah. That's the kind of feeling I have now. The feelings of nostrils freezing up. I like the cold. But I don't like feeling the cold metal of my pistol. Today I'm not wearing a holster. I'm sick of holsters. They're too big, too bulky. Who wear holsters anyway?
Fuck, a car passes. She stirs and wakes up.
"Damn. I dozed off. Why didn't you wake me up?"
"You're beautiful when you're asleep"
"You're not"
"I guess not. But you are."
"You're just saying it"
"No"
"Stop playing this silly game"
"What game?"
"You know."
"No"
"Whatever. Just forget about it"
"It's cold outside. Wanna go in?"
"Go in where?"
"Some bar. I need to get a drink"
"OK"
We stand up and walk toward a bar called "Brandy's". What a corny name. But they serve good stuff. We walk in. There's live music tonight. Someone's playing the piano. Really bad, happy tunes. I hate happy tunes. She loves happy tunes. She smiles at the musician, and starts nodding her head with the music. I don't like this side of her. But I love her.
I sit on the bench. I realize my cigarette has been put off by the moisture. There's not much to light anyway. I toss it in the ashtray. The bartender comes. He offers me another cigarette. I take it. I like cigarettes. They make me feel so comfortable, so serene. I like the feeling of the smoke going up to my brain, and choking it. I hate thinking, and it's one of those things that helps when I want to stop thinking.
"What will it be tonight, sir?"
Don't you hate fake respect? You know, when people call you "sir". What's the point anyway? Can't they just ask you what you want? They're like machines.
"I'll take some vermouth"
"And what about the lady?'
"Whiskey and soda for me"
"I'll be right back"
He looks like a fucking peacock. With his fancy pants, stupid neck tie, and white ironed shirt. I hate people with ironed shirts. What's the point anyway? She wears ironed shirts. I hate that side of her, too. But I love her. She's looking at me. Why?
"Is something wrong, Spike?"
"No"
"You look gloomy. What's wrong? You can tell me"
"I know I can. I just don't want to"
"Why not?"
"I hate it when you're worried or sad. I like you smiling. You're so beautiful when you're smiling"
She smiles.
"See, you just smiled. That's beautiful" - I lean toward her.
The bartender brings the drinks. Such bad timing. Did he do it on purpose or something? I hate bartenders. They have bad timing. I see someone reading the paper near the bar. I try reading the back of it, but I can't. Then I see a picture. I shut my right eye, and look at it. Then I shut my left eye, and look at it again. The guy sees me doing this, and moves. What's wrong with him? She softly touches my hand.
"Your hand is cold, Spike"
"You're right"
"I'm worried"
"About what?"
"I don't know. Don't you ever feel worried for nothing? You know, just the air around you weighs down, you can't think straight? Have you ever felt that way?"
"Not really"
She smiles again.
"Beautiful"
"What?"
"Nothing. You're beautiful"
For a whole hour we stay in the bar. The vermouth's bad. The music's bad. I hate the bartender. The guy with the paper is still reading it. Now he's discussing politics with the guy next to him. He points at a picture. I hate people who do that. What's so interesting about news? Why do people wait so eagerly for news? I know someone who wakes up at 5 AM just to read the morning paper before going to work. It's like as if the world's gonna turn inside out in his sleep.
"Wanna go to my place?" - Her voice is charming. Masculine, but charming.
"Yeah"
"Let's go"
We walk. There's rain. I get wet. She gets wet. She looks even more beautiful when she's wet. I hate being wet, I feel like a cat when I'm wet. A car passes by again. I hate the car that passes by.
She opens the door with her key. Inside, her apartment feels like a criminal's apartment. The air is stuffy, almost reluctant to let you in. You feel a hand pushing you back. Then she finds the switch, and with the shining of the light, you go in. We go near the window. Tomorrow's approaching. I'll soon have to go meet with Vicious, continue the operation we started yesterday.
"When this is over, I'm leaving the syndicate"
"You'll be killed"
"I'll let them say I'm dead"
"I'll be waiting at the graveyard. Of course, I will be alive"
"I. can't come with you"
"Come with me. We'll leave here.We'll escape from this world"
"And then what are we going to do?"
"We'll just live a life of freedom somewhere. Just like watching a dream."