Interlude With the Keraunophile (Prose)

The walk from the tavern has been light-hearted, but tedious. Fluorescent light dapples the cement from behind and above the trees, a familiar sight on a Saturday evening in the middle of town. I think it's about nine-thirty, and off in the distance leather-clad philanderers smoke clamorously. These are your people, and I half-expect to see you there in some melodramatic outfit, fashionably shitfaced. Walking downhill has quickened my step, and I scan my eyes over the faces of the loud nicotinites, marking a few familiar faces from your entourage.1

Suddenly, somebody is staring at me, mortified. I understand, rejoice and grieve immediately. You exist. In spite of all my arduous scheming to ignore you completely, that tortured, guilt-ridden grimace triggers something in me I had considered (or perhaps hoped) to be dead. I open my arms and stumble towards you. The remorse swiftly turns to terror as you realise that I'm approaching you, and you wave me away. I make some panicked gesture at you with my hand, and turn a fast heel after my friend, who has walked on obliviously.2

“No, David, wait!” you squall. My head is reefed around and I can see you half stepping towards me, eyes aglaze and lips quivering. I jog towards you and you grab me. Time moves, but we stand still. My arms and shoulders become fixated on keeping us this way, despite the attempts at attention by my companion and the mewlings of the neanderthal sniffing at your back. You whisper, “I'm sorry”, but I do not respond. Now is not the time to tell you it will never be good enough. I kiss you hard on the cheek, and pull away. The tortured grimace has returned, but all I can achieve is a listlessly aimless shrug. We embrace again and I lock my arms around you. I am at once secure and terrified; loved and loveless; enamoured and offended.3

Pleasantries are exchanged and we part. Thrice more I'll pass you this evening, but I will not pay you any heed, not tonight nor any other. Let this be the end.