Southern Accents

by Oro

She doesn’t like country music and she doesn’t understand his need to listen to her as she tries to silence the southern accents inside.

Southern Accents

By Oro

Rating: PG

Spoilers: None

Author's notes: Thanks to BJ for being a cool beta who does not kill nuns. This story is CJ's point of view and is part of the series I began with Reminiscence.

It's the worst country song in the entire universe. Filled with so-called meaning and sadness, people getting plagued and dumped by their significant other, and faith in Christ. Another country song passes, then another one begins. She can't stand it anymore; she gets up and turns off the radio. But the songs keep playing in her head. She never understood the attraction to the genre, and she doubted she ever would. It isn't the accent that bothers her as much as the repetition does. One bad song after the other. And that pissed her off. Why not write just one song? Why?

As a matter of fact, why can't everything be done just once? Not trivial things like eating, but living a life day by day by more days, days which into weeks, month, years, until nothing seems special. Nothing seems special to her. Nothing interesting ever happens. Words are connected to one another in the form of a sentence, minutes in form of an hour. Time passes, and she does not find meaning.

Atoms connected to one another, little particles creating substance. Bubbly fluid runs down her throat, sips become whole glasses creating heat and dizziness inside her. She is flustered; she laughs and she talks but nothing seems to help her get rid of the country songs that play in her head, one by one by another one. One bad song after the other. It's all the same to her, whether or not her breath is tinted with the scent of alcohol.

Things gather, she says. People gather. They gather into groups, into couples, into any form of quantity that is more than just one. There isn't just one thought, there's no one bubble, no one person. Always people together. The way it is, the way it's always been. But she, she is alone. One more sip, then another, as the next songs ends.

She doesn't like country music and she doesn't understand his need to listen to her as she tries to silence the southern accents inside. He looks at her and she gives him a crooked look. She sighs. One more sip and that's it, she's had enough to drink. A new song begins and he closes the door behind her. She is in his car and he is driving. She closes her eyes.

Numbness takes over and she is fast asleep. Groups are the foundation of democracy. People surround her and she has never been lonelier. One lonely person by the other, lonely people. She is kissing him but he doesn't know; one kiss followed by a second, third, fourth, fifth, she stops counting. There's no use of counting kisses, or country songs.

He doesn't know about either.

FIN