EXCERPT FROM Francis Murray
It was after ten when they finished their meal. J.P. was sated, fulfilled, he wanted to read a short story and then go sleep. Yet rather than go home, Terrence suggested a nightcap at a bar on Prince Street not too far away from where the accident had happened earlier that week.
“Just a small one, we can talk some more before going home. I hardly ever get to see you lately.” Terrence smiled, it was malignant at this hour, something foul masked in a benign encouragement that was really set on exploring new forms of suffering. It should have reminded J.P. to flee at once; he’d been here before and knew he wouldn’t make it home until after three if Terrance hijacked the rest of the evening in pointless adventure. And yet, he capitulated, believing there could be another outcome if he managed to retain control over himself and forget about the trouble Terrence was ultimately headed for.
The place was tiny, claustrophobic, and preposterously small. Heavy, thundering Electronica sprayed the patrons, encouraging them with complicated rhythm and pattern to move beyond the incredible amounts of alcohol their young and beautiful bodies were prepared to consume with servile determination. There they were, all flawless, all with perfect teeth and perfected ensembles of stripe and agitated denim. J.P. reminded himself that pushing 40 you had no business here, your were a fool conned by the ever present swirl of youth that had overrun the city, pretending to be of the same ilk but reminded of wrinkles and age spots, strange new hairs in strange places, friends with disease and divorce, isolation, fatigue and an alarming frequency of resignation. At the same time, although he had little in common anymore with these young, durable lives around him, by just walking into this place he was simultaneously resentful and restored. A whiff of temporal rejuvenation to be followed by a course of inevitable regret.
“Just a small one, we can talk some more before going home. I hardly ever get to see you lately.” Terrence smiled, it was malignant at this hour, something foul masked in a benign encouragement that was really set on exploring new forms of suffering. It should have reminded J.P. to flee at once; he’d been here before and knew he wouldn’t make it home until after three if Terrance hijacked the rest of the evening in pointless adventure. And yet, he capitulated, believing there could be another outcome if he managed to retain control over himself and forget about the trouble Terrence was ultimately headed for.
The place was tiny, claustrophobic, and preposterously small. Heavy, thundering Electronica sprayed the patrons, encouraging them with complicated rhythm and pattern to move beyond the incredible amounts of alcohol their young and beautiful bodies were prepared to consume with servile determination. There they were, all flawless, all with perfect teeth and perfected ensembles of stripe and agitated denim. J.P. reminded himself that pushing 40 you had no business here, your were a fool conned by the ever present swirl of youth that had overrun the city, pretending to be of the same ilk but reminded of wrinkles and age spots, strange new hairs in strange places, friends with disease and divorce, isolation, fatigue and an alarming frequency of resignation. At the same time, although he had little in common anymore with these young, durable lives around him, by just walking into this place he was simultaneously resentful and restored. A whiff of temporal rejuvenation to be followed by a course of inevitable regret.
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