Oh I realized that I forgot to say in the beginning, I don't own Cowboy
Bebop.
Chapter 3
She lay her head against the bar and listened to the melody. It was smooth and soft, a sort of inviting reverie that drew her heart out of its chest and penetrated her deep within the pit of her stomach. Faye was crying again, she always cried when she was in bars like this one, something about it reminded her of the past. Somewhere, buried deep in her subconscious, was the memory of something blurry and out of place. It made her head pain when she looked up at the stage, when she saw a seedy, singing queen on top. She sang of love and beauty, none of which, Faye expected, had she ever encountered in her life.
Faye never had it either. She never tasted the pleasures of unconditional happiness, she never ran through a field holding someone's arm and laughing uncontrollably. She never lay in someone's arms and felt complete happiness from the simple action of being next to the one she loved.
Faye suddenly remembered her mother, a beautiful, gentle, graceful woman. She always wanted to be like her mother. Even as a child she could remember herself in front of her dressing mirror, generously applying to herself her mothers lipstick, powder, and exotic perfumes. She remembered all the little spills, all the little giggles, all the little faults that, as a child, she loved to hate. She remembered her mother's face, as she stood with her arms crossed, dressed in a lilac frock, with beautiful black hair tied back, a face of mock anger but simultaneous satisfaction.
She always wanted to be like her mother, care-free, almost perfect. She hated that she wasn't. She hated that she was living in an utterly different age, a different time to which she suddenly began to feel unaccustomed. Rarely did she feel this way, not until she was caught with a drink and nothing but tears of loneliness. She leaned her head over palm and closed her eyes.
The bartender approached her. In his sympathetic gaze, she found herself basked.
"Wanna tell me 'bout it?" he asked, while drying a skotch glass with a yellow towel.
"Nah," she said slowly, trying to wipe away her tears frantically.
"You okay?" the bartender continued.
"Yeah," she lied, "I'm great."
She placed the glass on the drying rack and hung the towel on his shoulder, "You don't look like it."
"Who cares what I look like," Faye whispered, "I told you I'm okay so that means I am okay."
"What's your name, anyhow?"
"None of your business," Faye exclaimed, "get me another scotch."
He quickly poured some into her glass and she watched it fill up with fascination. He found himself mezmerized at her green eyes. So sad, so lonely, she must have been through a lot. A customer sat next to her and he quickly served the man's order before returning to her.
"You look like a Mandy to me," he said, "that playfullness in your face."
"Not Mandy," she said, giving him the look of death.
"Not Mandy, huh?" He smiled, "how about Sharon?"
"Don't you have other customers?"
"Delilah?" he asked, "that's a beautiful name. Sad beauty."
"My name is not Delilah, just please go---"
"Maybe Julia?" he interrupted.
She stopped, staring at him for a moment.
"Julia?" She whispered, there was something about that word rolling against her tongue, "Julia."
"Am I right then?" the bartender questioned.
"No!" she screamed angrily, before burying her face in her hands and beginning to cry.
A moment passed, as she panted heavily, convulsing heavily her shoulders in the process.
"I bet I can guess her name," a voice said from her right angle, and she looked up in shock, "Faye?"
For a moment, she thought she was dreaming. She turned her head and her eyes filled to the rim with memories. She felt a shaking mist within the pit of her stomach and her heart beat increased into the thousands. She did not know what to say or what to do, for her gaze was directly fixated on a pair of magnetic eyes of two different colors.
Chapter 3
She lay her head against the bar and listened to the melody. It was smooth and soft, a sort of inviting reverie that drew her heart out of its chest and penetrated her deep within the pit of her stomach. Faye was crying again, she always cried when she was in bars like this one, something about it reminded her of the past. Somewhere, buried deep in her subconscious, was the memory of something blurry and out of place. It made her head pain when she looked up at the stage, when she saw a seedy, singing queen on top. She sang of love and beauty, none of which, Faye expected, had she ever encountered in her life.
Faye never had it either. She never tasted the pleasures of unconditional happiness, she never ran through a field holding someone's arm and laughing uncontrollably. She never lay in someone's arms and felt complete happiness from the simple action of being next to the one she loved.
Faye suddenly remembered her mother, a beautiful, gentle, graceful woman. She always wanted to be like her mother. Even as a child she could remember herself in front of her dressing mirror, generously applying to herself her mothers lipstick, powder, and exotic perfumes. She remembered all the little spills, all the little giggles, all the little faults that, as a child, she loved to hate. She remembered her mother's face, as she stood with her arms crossed, dressed in a lilac frock, with beautiful black hair tied back, a face of mock anger but simultaneous satisfaction.
She always wanted to be like her mother, care-free, almost perfect. She hated that she wasn't. She hated that she was living in an utterly different age, a different time to which she suddenly began to feel unaccustomed. Rarely did she feel this way, not until she was caught with a drink and nothing but tears of loneliness. She leaned her head over palm and closed her eyes.
The bartender approached her. In his sympathetic gaze, she found herself basked.
"Wanna tell me 'bout it?" he asked, while drying a skotch glass with a yellow towel.
"Nah," she said slowly, trying to wipe away her tears frantically.
"You okay?" the bartender continued.
"Yeah," she lied, "I'm great."
She placed the glass on the drying rack and hung the towel on his shoulder, "You don't look like it."
"Who cares what I look like," Faye whispered, "I told you I'm okay so that means I am okay."
"What's your name, anyhow?"
"None of your business," Faye exclaimed, "get me another scotch."
He quickly poured some into her glass and she watched it fill up with fascination. He found himself mezmerized at her green eyes. So sad, so lonely, she must have been through a lot. A customer sat next to her and he quickly served the man's order before returning to her.
"You look like a Mandy to me," he said, "that playfullness in your face."
"Not Mandy," she said, giving him the look of death.
"Not Mandy, huh?" He smiled, "how about Sharon?"
"Don't you have other customers?"
"Delilah?" he asked, "that's a beautiful name. Sad beauty."
"My name is not Delilah, just please go---"
"Maybe Julia?" he interrupted.
She stopped, staring at him for a moment.
"Julia?" She whispered, there was something about that word rolling against her tongue, "Julia."
"Am I right then?" the bartender questioned.
"No!" she screamed angrily, before burying her face in her hands and beginning to cry.
A moment passed, as she panted heavily, convulsing heavily her shoulders in the process.
"I bet I can guess her name," a voice said from her right angle, and she looked up in shock, "Faye?"
For a moment, she thought she was dreaming. She turned her head and her eyes filled to the rim with memories. She felt a shaking mist within the pit of her stomach and her heart beat increased into the thousands. She did not know what to say or what to do, for her gaze was directly fixated on a pair of magnetic eyes of two different colors.