Pathos

Tonight it was a scarf around her neck, exotic, black and red. She said she didn’t like it, yet still she wore it. As it fell to reveal her vulnerable flesh, a horrific vision flashed in my head, until clumsily she slung the thin cloth back to cover it up again. Just like everything else. As time progressed, in through that neck she poured more and more of her sedative truth serum (aka cheap goon), numbing her mind and incidentally her inhibitions, until back out again came regurgitation in the form of allusions to “the incident”. No one urged her to go on. Did they know? And if so, how could they do these things they did? How could they drink their drinks? Almost cheerfully. Laughing & behaving normally. While pathetically, she continued to spurt her candid stories. With an imitated accent she spoke of him. The teacher - a Scott - and their liaison. Was it the drugs or the depression? Either way it was wrong. Yet she didn’t give a fuck…she just wanted a fuck. With the Scottish “well hung”, or anyone. Maybe her ex, “trying to screw someone else”, or some other veck. Maybe even her best friend, who she had kissed in secret. Before the vomit. Real…not just verbal like this. And in all these words I heard not what she said but what she meant. They all had hidden meaning. To which no one else seemed to be listening. All they heard was the sound of their own voices telling their own stories. Either ignorant or dishonest…and either way irrelevant. Since then discontent is the only word I’ve felt. Am I alone? I still don’t know. All I do know is that this calls for another drink. Now who’s pathetic?