"Was a long visit wrong?
Say you are the only
So many foreign worlds
(So relatively fucked)
So ready for us"
The stone table was cold granite, polished to perfection. The shot glasses, clear crystal, dregs of an amber liquid in each of the five. The bar sported beverages of all colours, many of which matched the mood lights that were coincidentally reflecting shades of blue. A barman was wiping the surfaces now that most of the punters had gone home for the night; Tuesdays were never busy. The lone, female soldier ordered another whiskey, and he measured and poured it slowly, becoming gradually more aware of her state. She downed it professionally, barely even wincing as the harsh burn flitted through her throat. Drops of saltwater on the bar surface caught the lights, shining blue onto the woman's white, partially-opened blouse. It was a shock for both participants to note them, realise their origin.
From her perspective, it was not her face that was reflecting back at her from the polished table, but a male face; dark hair, dark stubble, vibrant shining blue eyes. There was a sad smile on his lips, but one of forgiveness. Her loss is familiar, but worse, harsher somehow. This gave a constant ache, the last just short bursts of sadness and shame; perhaps because it's happened again, perhaps because it's a different man. She was reminded of when she nearly lost him before, and nearly lost herself. Reminded of when she had been forced to trap him in that hellish office block, infected, and reminded of the plea on his face, the desperation; reminded of the gun's barrel that faced her, reminded of the hand that held it. Then of the current situation, his current location. The bartender watched the woman glance to the side, and pick a piece of paper up from the barstool. It had a picture, eerie and unreal, the kind of thing you wouldn't draw for fear of being assumed insane. A man staring up at a machine, eyes on fire, destroying everything around him, including himself. He watched her eyes widen, staring at the image, unsure whether to approach the wounded woman. She rose herself, giving a nod to the bartender and exiting. The only traces of her custom were the glasses that scattered the bar top.
I'm going to leave this here now, I'd do one from Peter's perspective but it'd probably be quite happy and I don't think I want that... ;)
Please review :)