Round Here

The glass was cold against the skin, refreshing on this hottest of nights. Sweat beaded and ran, smeared the window, dampened the collar. A man staggered drunk down the street, pausing to look up at the lamplight shining down on the street. He lit a cigarette, gave a quizzical look and continued on. Soft music played from the old stereo in the corner. Thoughts floated in and out, the bourbon making them seem more surreal. It had only been an hour or so, but it felt like longer. The night had not ended as planned and it left a strange taste, almost bitter, almost sweet. It was hard to comprehend, more and more questions bubbled and coalesced, exploded and went unanswered. No-one had said such things before. It was unnerving to think of them, echoing through the early morning haze. It prompted a cigarette, a temporary distraction, the sudden rush of nicotine calming nerves. The shape in the bed moved, breathing a gentle sigh from a peaceful face. The sight brought with it a smile and feelings of familiarity, for a moment overshadowing the confusion. Watching that face a little while brought more thoughts, pain and hurt. It would never be an easy thing to do. Easy was never a consideration, usually. A challenge was interesting and fulfilling. Perhaps this was why here and now, the face in the bed could bring on a smile even though a voice in the dark did the same for very different reasons.