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He did as he pleased and held no regrets.
He stared into the narrow bottle and wiped away his despair as he drew it close to his mouth to finish the remainder. Casting the bottle aside he listened to the murmur of voices prevail and cause his head great pain and his mind great confusion. He sauntered to the table where he heard the yells and cheers of competition. He smiled as he viewed the game, taking another beer to fuel him for the next hand. The conversations existed in immense clamor, that mimicked previous conversations, so that he felt as if he were experiencing déjà vu. No not quite déjà vu, but Presque vu., for the conversations were never twice the same, but close to being so.
He held the cards firmly with his shaking hand, intense games always made him nervous. He swallowed his last sip hard and blinked a few times to focus the cards into his vision. Before placing his next bet, his loud cries of victory were shouted and could not be ignored. To anger him would be unwise, even if it were by chance, or by luck. Winning was not an option and each player folded in turn and in defeat of the greatness in their presence. Well perhaps it was mainly because of the fear of that greatness in their presence. More perhaps the fear of his power and any action he may take against a victor in his suffer of a defeat.
He lay on the couch with a pounding head and a heavy heart. "She promised Jack," he told me. The anguish seeped out from his heart and he let fury replace it. He sighed in frustration at the acknowledgement of his true fate, his true worth.
"If she doesn't want to show up when she says she's going to, then I don't give a damn whether she shows up anywhere when I ask her to ever again." And he meant it, in a drunken angered kind of way.
He staggered down the hall with his winnings in his left hand and a conversation starter in his right. That's when he saw her, Angela. I'm not sure how he convinced her to go with him, but he was Spot Conlon, he could do anything, and nothing short of anything. He disappeared into the room with her, and I turned away knowing the indifference he would show her an hour later. I'm not sure why he did it really, because I knew he loved Ana. I guess it was the combination of his drunken state and his history of deceit.
We didn't see Ana the next day. Nor the day after that, and apparently there was some accident in the factory, and it swept Ana's life away as it did so many others. The day of her memorial service passed by in a blur, the only thing I remember was the murmur of the sobs rather than the normal murmur of the voices. And the thing that stands foremost in my memory, is that single tear I saw roll down the Brooklyn Leader's eye. The tear of defeat, one of guilt, one of regret.
In the Point of View of Jack Kelly. in case that was confusing
He did as he pleased and held no regrets.
He stared into the narrow bottle and wiped away his despair as he drew it close to his mouth to finish the remainder. Casting the bottle aside he listened to the murmur of voices prevail and cause his head great pain and his mind great confusion. He sauntered to the table where he heard the yells and cheers of competition. He smiled as he viewed the game, taking another beer to fuel him for the next hand. The conversations existed in immense clamor, that mimicked previous conversations, so that he felt as if he were experiencing déjà vu. No not quite déjà vu, but Presque vu., for the conversations were never twice the same, but close to being so.
He held the cards firmly with his shaking hand, intense games always made him nervous. He swallowed his last sip hard and blinked a few times to focus the cards into his vision. Before placing his next bet, his loud cries of victory were shouted and could not be ignored. To anger him would be unwise, even if it were by chance, or by luck. Winning was not an option and each player folded in turn and in defeat of the greatness in their presence. Well perhaps it was mainly because of the fear of that greatness in their presence. More perhaps the fear of his power and any action he may take against a victor in his suffer of a defeat.
He lay on the couch with a pounding head and a heavy heart. "She promised Jack," he told me. The anguish seeped out from his heart and he let fury replace it. He sighed in frustration at the acknowledgement of his true fate, his true worth.
"If she doesn't want to show up when she says she's going to, then I don't give a damn whether she shows up anywhere when I ask her to ever again." And he meant it, in a drunken angered kind of way.
He staggered down the hall with his winnings in his left hand and a conversation starter in his right. That's when he saw her, Angela. I'm not sure how he convinced her to go with him, but he was Spot Conlon, he could do anything, and nothing short of anything. He disappeared into the room with her, and I turned away knowing the indifference he would show her an hour later. I'm not sure why he did it really, because I knew he loved Ana. I guess it was the combination of his drunken state and his history of deceit.
We didn't see Ana the next day. Nor the day after that, and apparently there was some accident in the factory, and it swept Ana's life away as it did so many others. The day of her memorial service passed by in a blur, the only thing I remember was the murmur of the sobs rather than the normal murmur of the voices. And the thing that stands foremost in my memory, is that single tear I saw roll down the Brooklyn Leader's eye. The tear of defeat, one of guilt, one of regret.
In the Point of View of Jack Kelly. in case that was confusing