21
« on: April 02, 2008, 01:58:40 AM »
“Don’t you ever stop to wonder how many dreams you’ve let fade or how much love you’ve let bleed out?â€
John; he’s a whiny bastard but his hearts all there, it’s in the right place so I love him for it, he’s funny and we’ve been mates since we were wee.
“Honestly dude I’m pissed, there’s two of you and I don’t think either of you are making any sense but you’re both bringing me down; shut the fuck upâ€
“Ok, sorry, sorry…. Oh shit! Sorry!... It’s not broken is it?
My fucking phone you cow-handed bastard!
“Fuck! bast…†calm down! “probably not†it’s just a bloody phone you daft looking, oddly lovable buffoon, I’m calm; no need to dish out the dinner plates “I’ve spilt on it a few times myselfâ€
I’m calm but I’m not a charity; “You can get tae fuck if you think I’m buying you another beer though, it was my round lastâ€
“Ok, ok, I’m heading to the bar, you want crisps or anything?†I smile a wry one at Kate and roll my eyes at an oblivious John while she smiles away the third pint that night with her cloth. Lovely lassie but Johns ex so a total no go, she loved/loves(?) the man but he’s a beautiful shambles of sweet meanings, forgotten birthdays and tragic brewers droop.
“Oh, hey, Kate, sorry second time†Hands wring, voice cracks, scrotum tightens and feet shuffle.
“Third†such a pretty smile!
“Yeah sorryâ€
“Just quit it ok? I’m starting to think you’re doing it on purpose†a half wish, I can almost see her bite her lip and wish that he’d grow up and stop making an arse of himself.
John just grins that schoolyard kind of ‘special’ and counts the folds, seven! It’s almost like the North Sea. Kate wanders off, more spills, more eyes and more, less genuine, smiles to give to the ones drinking more of her than their beers.
John really is a moron.
“You want crisps then?â€
“Yeah sorry, scampi fries… get a shot too; if I’m going to listen to your faded dreams and wounded heart I’m best to be shit-facedâ€
“What?! I said crisps and I’m getting a beer for myself now you wa…†Another fold, money is involved, it’s definitely the north sea this time.
“Aye your bloody round!, Jesus what did I say five minutes ago?â€
“Yeah, right, right, did you see where I put my wallet?†cow-hands pat every inch while the dinner plates ignore the notes cowering in the wallet inside the chair-slung jacket. Flustered-as-fuck, that’s John at round time and I wouldn’t have him any other way.
Typical Friday night then, Johns as pissed as the wee, old quiet man in the corner while I sit there and humour the belly-aching of his poor, wounded, tragically undersexed little heart. I say humour but what I do is rictus at the bastard while he lays mine out in front of me. So, any way; introductions, I’m Fotis – fucking hippy parents, I’m the light of their life etc. blah, blah, bleh, eww and such… - I tell you! pot has a lot to answer for, actually come to think of it pot has a shit load of ‘splainin to do. Luckily though my surname is James so most people call me that or Fotty (pretty as a picture, hah! Fucking right!) or Iss, I like Iss but most people just call me James and I’d feel like an arse asking them to call me Iss, you know what I mean?
I'm not too sure where it's all going but it's either a short story or a build up something more sustantial.