All at once you forget to try.
Communications.
A Maka-Maka fic by Monikku

Prologue

Shaka shan, shaka shan, shaka shaka shan, shaka shan, shaka... the cadence a monotonous drone, a bottle of beer keeping me smiling at faces that I attach and detach from in moments, in a blink. Shan, shaka shan. There is a power in this, in the obscure, a silhouette of a smile; I straddle ambiguity effortlessly. I love this, I love the culmination of anxiety and unrest into a dazzle of thoughts and ideas; exchanging fashion, politics, art, and other such catastrophes. Reeling from the cataclysmic burns of abstraction, consuming passions, sometimes mistaken for love.

He's leaning a little too closely, and I know that along the conversation of Heironymus was an invitation to earthly delights. And maybe after a few more beers I will consider him, should he prove his hunger. Desperation is the jurisdiction of artists. I could never be with anyone who lacked such intrinsic desire.

God, my internal monologue is fucking pretentious.

So, he's touching my arm, and we're talking about Heironymus Bosch and he seems to get it. He seems interesting, so if he keeps saying the right things, I might fuck him. If he's any good and shows a continued interest, he might become one of my boyfriends. He's cute. Yeah, he's cute.

Oh, he said something that is supposed to be funny. Mmm, cue smile and giggle. Jeez, I'm starting to fake it like Nene. When did I start doing this? I wonder what Nene is doing right now. Sleeping, probably. I never fake it with her. I never feel that desperate pull with her, either. My pretentiousness just... dissipates. When I'm with her... eh, he can see he's losing me. I'm tired of reassuring him, because, in truth, he really already has. I need another beer, attach detach, I'm not smiling anymore. I'm walking away from him now, I think he was leading into a conversation about surrealism. Oh well. I must seem like such a mercurial bitch. Where did my good mood go?

The bartender is cute. He's smiling at me with those same desirous eyes. I look good tonight. Ah, I need something stronger than beer, maybe gin? Vodka? Bourbon, that would be a nice, stark contrast. Thick and rich and buttery, my friend in lit says whiskey, scotch, and bourbon are the drinks of western writers. I wonder what the drinks of western painters are, what did Bosch drink? Wine, maybe? Absinthe? That was really popular in Europe at the time, wasn't it? I think it was. Yaah, bourbon buuuurrrrnsss. Haha, I just let out a yelp. I could never be a writer. I'm not cool enough to drink bourbon unaffectedly.

Mmmm, my cheeks and ears are getting warm and I'm beginning to get that lovely feeling of swimmy acquiescence.
How many beers did I have before I put that bourbon in my belly? I guess another shot couldn't hurt.

It's Nene!
What is she doing here? I love Nene. Yaay! She's with a guy, probably her boyfriend. I can't believe I've never met him. Her boyfriend.

She's acting so coy with him. So shy and cute. She's blushing and leaning into something he said. They're kissing, and he's touching her thigh. She looks like she likes it. I'm going to be sick. I shouldn't have put bourbon in my belly after all. Ugh, where is that artist boy? earthly-delights,bosch-boy, oh, there he is. Jeez,
I'm stumbling a bit. How many beers did I have?

"Hey, hey," I put my hand on his shoulder and rest my forehead on his chest. "Hey, take me home." I want to forget what I've seen. I want to forget where I'd rather be.

To be Continued...

Author's notes:
As always, thanks for reading!