Journal 1 or Dark Corridors pt.1

Meer's hasn't changed much through the years. The day it opened was the bright, young day I turned twenty-two. Of course by bright day I mean I sludged into this dank hell-hole of a bar after being dumped by my girlfriend of six years. And young, well, I must say twenty-two really didn't last as long as I would have hoped. Still though, there is this smell that lives in Meer's, and I noticed it even then. It is pungent, distinct, and very much patchouli. Walking in from the damp that first night it was smoke drifting up to my nose and tickling me towards the door. But here I am, and there I was. Sitting in Meer's. On a Sunday. It is the only bar I know of that is always open. Behind the counter is Alm. He doesn't sleep. At first I thought maybe I came in at all the wrong times, but he does not sleep. There isn't an hour I have been at Meer's without Alm, and trust me, I'm here a lot.
I wish I could tell you about Alm, about his magic tricks at the bar. His years of practice with cards along with a lack of explanation about his past. Maybe even how he earned the nickname Alm. But as I said, there are never any explanations about Alm. He just is.
That and there is a goddess I haven't seen for years sitting directly across the table from me. She floated in, sat down, and proceeded to make the silence thick enough that I may just pick up the knife to my left and cut straight through it. Then again, there is no use in cutting through the silence, as soon as I could see her clearly again I would go silent. This woman is the reason so much went wrong so quickly. My whirlwind lady, she is always dressed for the part. I worry, because tonight she is wearing black. But that might be the pitcher of Guiness talking. Or the Jack Daniels. Or the Captain. Or that gin and tonic. Whichever it is, it is making her dress dance in shades of black and purple, turning it ethereal. Colors shouldn't do that.
She pulls a pack of Fantasia's from the breast pocket of her, okay I'm not paying attention to her coat anymore. There is just something about her perfect breasts that make me stop and become aware of how light her breathing is. The red cigarette comes out and the flame is a beacon through the mist settled across our table. "Our" table.
The red tip of the red cigarette pulls back to create ash as her perfect lips part and exhale the first hit. I take more than a drink then. I take a pull off of my Guiness because those lips are starting to smile, I am going to need it.