(no subject)
The bar I sit in is dingy and my stool tips back and forth.
The petite woman behind the bar is pierced all over her face and a tattoo is spread across her chest.
She smiles at me as she refills my drink.
A little further down the counter there sits two girls.
They are taking gulps of beer and giggling as they whisper back and forth to one another.
The man next to me has his arms spread in front of him.
He is obviously passed out.
I can hear his nose whistle every two seconds.
I wonder how long this will continue for.
My mind wanders for a moment.
My train of thought is interrupted by the sound of shattered glass.
Small fragments that once fit together to form the bottom of a wine bottle are now lying by my feet.
The top half is in the tight grasp of an intoxicated young man.
I examine the man for a moment.
His shoulder length hair is unkempt.
He is wearing dark jeans with massive rips in various places.
His worn down sneakers also contain holes.
His thin shirt is inside out.
He slowly begins to pace back and forth along the bar.
He has a disturbing look in his eyes as he passes.
Each of us who are seated receives the same awkward smile from him.
I feel greatly disturbed and uncomfortable, but I won’t move an inch.
He stops.
I keep my head turned away.
I am trying to convince myself that I am not concerned with this matter.
Suddenly I hear a slight whimper.
My curiosity overwhelms me and I spin around on my stool.
The man is still there.
He is crying with obviously no intention to hold back his tears.
All eyes are on him.
The extremely terrified look across his face morphs to become somewhat bold.
He has stopped crying now.
His shaky pale hand still contains the broken wine bottle.
He stares straight into my eyes.
I stare right back.
His hand quivers as he brings the weapon up to level with his face.
He continues to stare.
I don’t look away.
Suddenly I feel a cold, wet tear roll down my face.
I can’t tell if I fear for my life or if I feel sorry for this man.
The whole bar is motionless.
The drunken middle-aged men and women have sat still or left the scene.
I can faintly hear the cheesy electronica music playing.
The man is still holding the bottle and staring intensely into my eyes.
He brings the sharp edge up to his own neck.
The petite woman behind the bar is pierced all over her face and a tattoo is spread across her chest.
She smiles at me as she refills my drink.
A little further down the counter there sits two girls.
They are taking gulps of beer and giggling as they whisper back and forth to one another.
The man next to me has his arms spread in front of him.
He is obviously passed out.
I can hear his nose whistle every two seconds.
I wonder how long this will continue for.
My mind wanders for a moment.
My train of thought is interrupted by the sound of shattered glass.
Small fragments that once fit together to form the bottom of a wine bottle are now lying by my feet.
The top half is in the tight grasp of an intoxicated young man.
I examine the man for a moment.
His shoulder length hair is unkempt.
He is wearing dark jeans with massive rips in various places.
His worn down sneakers also contain holes.
His thin shirt is inside out.
He slowly begins to pace back and forth along the bar.
He has a disturbing look in his eyes as he passes.
Each of us who are seated receives the same awkward smile from him.
I feel greatly disturbed and uncomfortable, but I won’t move an inch.
He stops.
I keep my head turned away.
I am trying to convince myself that I am not concerned with this matter.
Suddenly I hear a slight whimper.
My curiosity overwhelms me and I spin around on my stool.
The man is still there.
He is crying with obviously no intention to hold back his tears.
All eyes are on him.
The extremely terrified look across his face morphs to become somewhat bold.
He has stopped crying now.
His shaky pale hand still contains the broken wine bottle.
He stares straight into my eyes.
I stare right back.
His hand quivers as he brings the weapon up to level with his face.
He continues to stare.
I don’t look away.
Suddenly I feel a cold, wet tear roll down my face.
I can’t tell if I fear for my life or if I feel sorry for this man.
The whole bar is motionless.
The drunken middle-aged men and women have sat still or left the scene.
I can faintly hear the cheesy electronica music playing.
The man is still holding the bottle and staring intensely into my eyes.
He brings the sharp edge up to his own neck.