lantern soul 10

 

His name is Apollyon, for he is the archangel of the abyss. His eyes were black and white, no color at all. The words "lust for life" were tattooed on his forehead, barely visible below his hairline—greasy hair framing those doll eyes.

 

Lord, it gets old, one thought then another, then the feeling of whether that is right or wrong? Do I have an existential crisis? Yes? You tell me you're in charge. They will think that we're crazy again if I keep referring to myself in the plural. At least they can't read my thoughts. Terror is the one thought unjudged if the soul could be heard by many. Don't make eye contact.

 

He looks anyway, and she smiles. She is a platinum blonde. She may have shaved her head a week earlier.

 

Skinny little thing, how old is she, I wonder? No way she left her twenties yet. If I wasn't the scarred monster, I am. I may have asked her out, but that is a lifetime ago. None of that for me; I am better off alone. There is no need to think about it. Just stop! Shit, she is walking over; give her a smile that will scare her away. Show these rotten teeth; half of them pulled nicotine-stained are the rest. She can do better, and she should know it. And if she doesn't, then I will let her know.

 

She walks over to him, blues eyes like artificial jewels.

 

"what are you having?" she says.

 

He smiles, and her eyes say the whole story, let me paraphrase for you. "Denise, you sure can pick them, some backwoods redneck who is scared of a toothbrush."

 

Sticking to his plan, he asks for a smoke, she complies, but under her breath, he can hear her whisper, "what a loser." as she turned around, heading back to her table.

 

Quickly downing his coffee. he walks out of the diner, smoke in hand.

 

"can I use your lighter?" he says to a man standing not far from the entrance.

 

"Sure." he hands it over to Apollyon, who says, "I will hand it right back."

 

"I know you will." says the man.

 

Is it wrong to feel some dread in the pseudo tragic? In the nearly psychic-like ability to see a failure, brace for it and still be left recoiling after the hit. No, don't be dramatic, don't think evil thoughts; you're a grown-ass man. No, you're not going to gouge your eyes out; yes, I know you only have to do it once. But for a decade, you have felt that need and have never caved to that compulsion. God, I forgot how much I hated cigarettes. Inhale exhale (passive-aggressive suicide.) Your my, you're my favorite waste of time. That is Marshall Crenshaw, right? Buddy holly in la bomba. Good music; if it weren't for you, I would be gone, not passive-aggressive suicide but the authentic articulation of existential dread.

 

He throws what's left of the smoke onto the pavement. Hearing part of it sizzle out on the damps mist-covered pavement—the smell of smoke in his lungs almost light-headed from the nicotine. He whistles the tune your my favorite waste of time.