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There are few places as lonely as a restaurant table. Maybe for others, these respresent places of laughter or romance, a place to socialise, strengthen bonds, or just dwell in your own company reflectively. We used to come here every Saturday night before she passed away. Back then I was one of the fortunate people who too seeked comfort and enjoyment from this place. But now every second I spend here at our table is another sharpening pain in my heart. I could leave, but to go where?
This is my place of belonging, this is where I feel at home, crawling away into my loneliness and sucking at the bottom of my third glass of whisky.
We would have such great times here. She was the only person who could match my wit and so talking to her was a battle, a game, but a thoroughly fun one. I wouldn't have spent a second anywhere else in the world if I had been offered - sailing across the ocean, standing at the top of a mountain, gazing up at the stars on a cool summer's evening in a tropical paradise - all these things have no attraction compared to a night in her company. We would talk for hours, lost in each other's gaze, there could not have been a world outside our table when we were out for dinner, for all we cared. The food which once used to excite and compliment the conversation so nicely is now painful - I stare down at my salad and a tear rolls off my face. I don't even like vegetables, no, this is what she used to eat. I can't enjoy a steak anymore, every chunk of meat I tear into tears a shred from my heart as I think about her, and stare out of the window, at OUR view. But I must gaze alone. This is my world.
Other people pass through here to eat, presumably out for dinner much in the way her and I would have done all those years ago. I pay them no attention. Looking at the smiles on their faces makes my heart sink. I stare out of the window at the view, remembering how she used to comment at how pretty the sea always looked - I hear her voice word for word, tone for tone, exactly how it was, as if she was speaking the words to me herself. The one small comfort I have is that when my mind is clear enough her strong voice echoes in my head, and almost, just almost, raises a smile on my withered expressionless face. But then the voice pushes the pain and suffering deeper into my heart, serving as a reminder that she exists as nothing more than a memory. I'd go visit her grave but I think that would push me over the egde and I would abandon the will to live. I have no faith in an afterlife so instead of accepting cruel reality I simply go out for dinner. At least when I'm here I can sink into my memories and shut myself off from the outside world, and when I start to emerge again I drink until I pass out - anything to escape reality's clutch.
But, alas, I cannot continue this way forever. I'm not sure which i'd prefer - a life of denial and escapism, or to strengthen up and face facts. My father always told me to be a man, and now he's gone too. I must face my fears, like he told me too. Tonight, I am out for dinner, for one last trip into my memories. As soon as they kick me out at closing time, I'm going to face reality and take a hold of myself. Be a man, as my father would say. There's a small revolver in my pocket and an X I drew on my heart with an old pen my mother gave to me as a boy. I squeezed the last drop of ink out of it and it will help squeeze the last drop of life out of me. I gaze down at the finger which will pull the trigger and order another glass every time the nerves start to creep back, escaping from the truth as I always have.
Tonight is the last time I will go out for dinner.
Remember me next time you do.
This is my place of belonging, this is where I feel at home, crawling away into my loneliness and sucking at the bottom of my third glass of whisky.
We would have such great times here. She was the only person who could match my wit and so talking to her was a battle, a game, but a thoroughly fun one. I wouldn't have spent a second anywhere else in the world if I had been offered - sailing across the ocean, standing at the top of a mountain, gazing up at the stars on a cool summer's evening in a tropical paradise - all these things have no attraction compared to a night in her company. We would talk for hours, lost in each other's gaze, there could not have been a world outside our table when we were out for dinner, for all we cared. The food which once used to excite and compliment the conversation so nicely is now painful - I stare down at my salad and a tear rolls off my face. I don't even like vegetables, no, this is what she used to eat. I can't enjoy a steak anymore, every chunk of meat I tear into tears a shred from my heart as I think about her, and stare out of the window, at OUR view. But I must gaze alone. This is my world.
Other people pass through here to eat, presumably out for dinner much in the way her and I would have done all those years ago. I pay them no attention. Looking at the smiles on their faces makes my heart sink. I stare out of the window at the view, remembering how she used to comment at how pretty the sea always looked - I hear her voice word for word, tone for tone, exactly how it was, as if she was speaking the words to me herself. The one small comfort I have is that when my mind is clear enough her strong voice echoes in my head, and almost, just almost, raises a smile on my withered expressionless face. But then the voice pushes the pain and suffering deeper into my heart, serving as a reminder that she exists as nothing more than a memory. I'd go visit her grave but I think that would push me over the egde and I would abandon the will to live. I have no faith in an afterlife so instead of accepting cruel reality I simply go out for dinner. At least when I'm here I can sink into my memories and shut myself off from the outside world, and when I start to emerge again I drink until I pass out - anything to escape reality's clutch.
But, alas, I cannot continue this way forever. I'm not sure which i'd prefer - a life of denial and escapism, or to strengthen up and face facts. My father always told me to be a man, and now he's gone too. I must face my fears, like he told me too. Tonight, I am out for dinner, for one last trip into my memories. As soon as they kick me out at closing time, I'm going to face reality and take a hold of myself. Be a man, as my father would say. There's a small revolver in my pocket and an X I drew on my heart with an old pen my mother gave to me as a boy. I squeezed the last drop of ink out of it and it will help squeeze the last drop of life out of me. I gaze down at the finger which will pull the trigger and order another glass every time the nerves start to creep back, escaping from the truth as I always have.
Tonight is the last time I will go out for dinner.
Remember me next time you do.
Page:
Very nice Asher.
I think I was dazed with tiredness last night or something, because now the closing lines make perfect sense. It was me not you. Sometimes my brain turns to spaghetti.
Black Glove wrote:
> I'm unsure about this line: "I gaze down at the finger which will
> pull the trigger and order another glass every time the nerves start
> to creep back, escaping from the truth as I always have."
The truth is that he's nervous about his following actions but like most things he hides away from the fact and numbs the feeling with alcohol.
> I'm unsure about this line: "I gaze down at the finger which will
> pull the trigger and order another glass every time the nerves start
> to creep back, escaping from the truth as I always have."
The truth is that he's nervous about his following actions but like most things he hides away from the fact and numbs the feeling with alcohol.
Thanks, I'm a solid fan of your work too lol.
Very good liked it a lot.
Put it down to the drunken ramblings of a man about to end his own life lol.
I'm unsure about this line: "I gaze down at the finger which will pull the trigger and order another glass every time the nerves start to creep back, escaping from the truth as I always have."
And the final sentence baffles me. Sounds like Yoda-speak. But other than these it was an enjoyable read.
And the final sentence baffles me. Sounds like Yoda-speak. But other than these it was an enjoyable read.
There are few places as lonely as a restaurant table. Maybe for others, these respresent places of laughter or romance, a place to socialise, strengthen bonds, or just dwell in your own company reflectively. We used to come here every Saturday night before she passed away. Back then I was one of the fortunate people who too seeked comfort and enjoyment from this place. But now every second I spend here at our table is another sharpening pain in my heart. I could leave, but to go where?
This is my place of belonging, this is where I feel at home, crawling away into my loneliness and sucking at the bottom of my third glass of whisky.
We would have such great times here. She was the only person who could match my wit and so talking to her was a battle, a game, but a thoroughly fun one. I wouldn't have spent a second anywhere else in the world if I had been offered - sailing across the ocean, standing at the top of a mountain, gazing up at the stars on a cool summer's evening in a tropical paradise - all these things have no attraction compared to a night in her company. We would talk for hours, lost in each other's gaze, there could not have been a world outside our table when we were out for dinner, for all we cared. The food which once used to excite and compliment the conversation so nicely is now painful - I stare down at my salad and a tear rolls off my face. I don't even like vegetables, no, this is what she used to eat. I can't enjoy a steak anymore, every chunk of meat I tear into tears a shred from my heart as I think about her, and stare out of the window, at OUR view. But I must gaze alone. This is my world.
Other people pass through here to eat, presumably out for dinner much in the way her and I would have done all those years ago. I pay them no attention. Looking at the smiles on their faces makes my heart sink. I stare out of the window at the view, remembering how she used to comment at how pretty the sea always looked - I hear her voice word for word, tone for tone, exactly how it was, as if she was speaking the words to me herself. The one small comfort I have is that when my mind is clear enough her strong voice echoes in my head, and almost, just almost, raises a smile on my withered expressionless face. But then the voice pushes the pain and suffering deeper into my heart, serving as a reminder that she exists as nothing more than a memory. I'd go visit her grave but I think that would push me over the egde and I would abandon the will to live. I have no faith in an afterlife so instead of accepting cruel reality I simply go out for dinner. At least when I'm here I can sink into my memories and shut myself off from the outside world, and when I start to emerge again I drink until I pass out - anything to escape reality's clutch.
But, alas, I cannot continue this way forever. I'm not sure which i'd prefer - a life of denial and escapism, or to strengthen up and face facts. My father always told me to be a man, and now he's gone too. I must face my fears, like he told me too. Tonight, I am out for dinner, for one last trip into my memories. As soon as they kick me out at closing time, I'm going to face reality and take a hold of myself. Be a man, as my father would say. There's a small revolver in my pocket and an X I drew on my heart with an old pen my mother gave to me as a boy. I squeezed the last drop of ink out of it and it will help squeeze the last drop of life out of me. I gaze down at the finger which will pull the trigger and order another glass every time the nerves start to creep back, escaping from the truth as I always have.
Tonight is the last time I will go out for dinner.
Remember me next time you do.
This is my place of belonging, this is where I feel at home, crawling away into my loneliness and sucking at the bottom of my third glass of whisky.
We would have such great times here. She was the only person who could match my wit and so talking to her was a battle, a game, but a thoroughly fun one. I wouldn't have spent a second anywhere else in the world if I had been offered - sailing across the ocean, standing at the top of a mountain, gazing up at the stars on a cool summer's evening in a tropical paradise - all these things have no attraction compared to a night in her company. We would talk for hours, lost in each other's gaze, there could not have been a world outside our table when we were out for dinner, for all we cared. The food which once used to excite and compliment the conversation so nicely is now painful - I stare down at my salad and a tear rolls off my face. I don't even like vegetables, no, this is what she used to eat. I can't enjoy a steak anymore, every chunk of meat I tear into tears a shred from my heart as I think about her, and stare out of the window, at OUR view. But I must gaze alone. This is my world.
Other people pass through here to eat, presumably out for dinner much in the way her and I would have done all those years ago. I pay them no attention. Looking at the smiles on their faces makes my heart sink. I stare out of the window at the view, remembering how she used to comment at how pretty the sea always looked - I hear her voice word for word, tone for tone, exactly how it was, as if she was speaking the words to me herself. The one small comfort I have is that when my mind is clear enough her strong voice echoes in my head, and almost, just almost, raises a smile on my withered expressionless face. But then the voice pushes the pain and suffering deeper into my heart, serving as a reminder that she exists as nothing more than a memory. I'd go visit her grave but I think that would push me over the egde and I would abandon the will to live. I have no faith in an afterlife so instead of accepting cruel reality I simply go out for dinner. At least when I'm here I can sink into my memories and shut myself off from the outside world, and when I start to emerge again I drink until I pass out - anything to escape reality's clutch.
But, alas, I cannot continue this way forever. I'm not sure which i'd prefer - a life of denial and escapism, or to strengthen up and face facts. My father always told me to be a man, and now he's gone too. I must face my fears, like he told me too. Tonight, I am out for dinner, for one last trip into my memories. As soon as they kick me out at closing time, I'm going to face reality and take a hold of myself. Be a man, as my father would say. There's a small revolver in my pocket and an X I drew on my heart with an old pen my mother gave to me as a boy. I squeezed the last drop of ink out of it and it will help squeeze the last drop of life out of me. I gaze down at the finger which will pull the trigger and order another glass every time the nerves start to creep back, escaping from the truth as I always have.
Tonight is the last time I will go out for dinner.
Remember me next time you do.
Page: