Inebriated visions in pink

Alcohol. When consumed in volumes, makes one speak volumes. Alcohol, I believe, offers a clarity that most embrace, and few understand and there are still a bunch of a select fewer who treasure it as the last semblance of a human trace left in the alcohol stream. And, therefore, understand the true import of the pungent viscosity of the wondrous elixir that you're downing by the gallon.

I see you. Sitting on the table opposite mine, while I pretend to gawk at a stupid cricket match on the plasma across you. Couldn't be more loserly, could I now. You know the guy you're downing the Bud with just ain't worth it. The Nokia is your excuse at times, the match or the loo at others.

I see you. Basking in the blue backlight of the Nokia. Lighting you up in an unearthly beautiful hue.

I see you. Scratching the label off that sorry unwitting bottle of beer. Adjusting your sunglasses on your head at 11 P.M. With that hair, that wondrous shock of hair, that Yves himself would discount your unpronounced but surreptitiously understated roundish belly for.

I see you. With the pink, suggestive, and if I may be allowed to add, only tastefully suggestive pink shirt, the conservatism, just screaming forth from the white spaghetti underneath.

I see you. With the mammoth ring on the finger. A constant reminder of the horrendously stupid mistake you made probably a year back, considering you still have a beer outing on a tuesday evening.

I see you. As you disdainfully sign the bill and gulp what remains of your beer. As you put that credit card immaculately back in that red clutch. As you take out a listerine strip and offer it to the expectant cock across the table knowing all too fully well what you'll be enduring in the parking lot.

I see you. I know I want you, covet you as you leave the table and walk away. I hate to see you go. But it would be a sin to say that I don't love to watch you leave. The alacrity of your asymmetrical perfection can only elicit a sigh of relief, as you now stand a distant memory to be wiped out with the next potent mix of Bailey's, Kahlua and Cointreau. And if you're really lucky, I'd dedicate to you two rounds of tequila post your exit-de-trance.

Another one bites the dust. The pointlessness of the situation reigns supreme as I come back to the conversation on my table where we burn old friends on the spit, gawk at the new women in the bar. By the fifth tequila you're nearly out of my head. Only to be filled by another masterpiece in the image and splendour of the maker. I try and understand your thoughts, trials, tribulations and smiles and how I could be the white knight salvaging all that matters to you. Another tequila please.

No.
I don't see you anymore. Fading, like an infantile injury from the mind of a greying individual. Drowning in tequila seems to be an option which becomes infinitely more viable. The clink of a zippo and you're nearly forgotten. As I retrace my steps to the car, I don't even remember what the whole toast to pink in the bar was all about.

I see you.