09-27-2013, 06:10 AM
The door creaked open, a male voice ordered and the clink of glassware responded. Jensen didn't glance up from the object sitting beneath his face that might as well occupy his entire world until the man sat alongside.
He twisted his neck aside to see who it was rather than sit up and acknowledge him like civilized men should, but there was little recognition behind such a flat ingestion. Funny thing was, the glaze had nothing to do with alcohol. He'd barely made a dent in sipping at the shot glass: the meager few ounces of liquid might as well be an ocean. He quickly deduced they were near to the same age, though the man's weariness was tempered with self-assured confidence. A bit of a contrast to Jensen's fatigue.
The bartender made quick work of supplying a shot. Identical to the one sitting mostly untouched beneath Jensen. The bottles along the wall glistened with shelf lighting, but they all looked the same to him. What made one ungodly expensive and another barely worth the bottle it came in? He had no clue, but at least the bartender had a worthy customer now. The place was hardly welcoming after forty-five minutes of one guy warming the seat.
While toying the glass between two fingers, he uncurled his posture enough to drape a hand through dark curls and lean back. These old wooden seats were not built for long occupancy.
"I work third shift," he replied with his usual accent, though all the gleam and passion once devoured by thousands was now dusty with irrelevance; just like the rest of him. Gosh, he missed it.
He broke the awkwardly long eye-contact with the newcomer and peered longingly into the glass instead. He still found it hard to believe he was so intimate with something he'd so sternly objected for his entire career. No, his entire life. He sighed. At least alcohol was a minor friend sitting in this sinking boat of hypocrisy.
It looked like water: quiet and benign. Yet it could rot a man from the inside-out, but liver rot was a minor consequence of such relationships. If he wanted to erode his own soul, Jensen was doing a fine enough job on his own without such merciless aid. Why sit here when there was vodka at home?
Some brand he'd pulled from the lowest shelf at the liquor store awaited alongside a shot glass smaller than this one. The sick thing was, Jensen knew exactly why he was here. He swallowed nervously at that thought, and when next he brought himself to physically look upon the stranger alongside, it made him a little sick to think about it.
And a little hopeful at the same time.
Great. His sentence in hell just got a little hotter. He squeezed his eyes shut and awkwardly looked away once more.
"Jensen," he added, but the introduction was not aimed to anyone in particular. At least he finally brought himself to take a second sip.
Edited by Jensen James, Sep 27 2013, 06:12 AM.
He twisted his neck aside to see who it was rather than sit up and acknowledge him like civilized men should, but there was little recognition behind such a flat ingestion. Funny thing was, the glaze had nothing to do with alcohol. He'd barely made a dent in sipping at the shot glass: the meager few ounces of liquid might as well be an ocean. He quickly deduced they were near to the same age, though the man's weariness was tempered with self-assured confidence. A bit of a contrast to Jensen's fatigue.
The bartender made quick work of supplying a shot. Identical to the one sitting mostly untouched beneath Jensen. The bottles along the wall glistened with shelf lighting, but they all looked the same to him. What made one ungodly expensive and another barely worth the bottle it came in? He had no clue, but at least the bartender had a worthy customer now. The place was hardly welcoming after forty-five minutes of one guy warming the seat.
While toying the glass between two fingers, he uncurled his posture enough to drape a hand through dark curls and lean back. These old wooden seats were not built for long occupancy.
"I work third shift," he replied with his usual accent, though all the gleam and passion once devoured by thousands was now dusty with irrelevance; just like the rest of him. Gosh, he missed it.
He broke the awkwardly long eye-contact with the newcomer and peered longingly into the glass instead. He still found it hard to believe he was so intimate with something he'd so sternly objected for his entire career. No, his entire life. He sighed. At least alcohol was a minor friend sitting in this sinking boat of hypocrisy.
It looked like water: quiet and benign. Yet it could rot a man from the inside-out, but liver rot was a minor consequence of such relationships. If he wanted to erode his own soul, Jensen was doing a fine enough job on his own without such merciless aid. Why sit here when there was vodka at home?
Some brand he'd pulled from the lowest shelf at the liquor store awaited alongside a shot glass smaller than this one. The sick thing was, Jensen knew exactly why he was here. He swallowed nervously at that thought, and when next he brought himself to physically look upon the stranger alongside, it made him a little sick to think about it.
And a little hopeful at the same time.
Great. His sentence in hell just got a little hotter. He squeezed his eyes shut and awkwardly looked away once more.
"Jensen," he added, but the introduction was not aimed to anyone in particular. At least he finally brought himself to take a second sip.
Edited by Jensen James, Sep 27 2013, 06:12 AM.