Journey from Post-Mortis

The smoke from the bar pours through my soul like a toilet cake melting on a gas flame. Patrons and gaudy suits avoid my probing eyes as they drink and inhale from wrapped and housed vices like strands of spaghetti sliding down a dusty canyon. My throbbing and brilliant heart sinks from view as I try to find a face in the crowd. And then I do.

The face is that of a lady with rich umber hair like smooth piano wire. Her yellow dress burns through the dull greys and uniform blacks like a lemon in a pool of oil. I stop sinking and start swimming myself to the surface once more. The room swings back into sharp focus as she twirls her sinuous neck and smiles at me. Her jet-red lipstick and billiard-ball eyes call to me like a dying bee on rough cement.
"Hello," she says. The word trickles from her mouth and sails with careless abandon on the muddy airs and graces.
"That word trickled from your mouth and sailed with careless abandon on the muddy airs and graces," I say.
"Oh. Goodbye," she quickly runs out into the street.

The rest of the evening fades into nothingness like a stocky foreigner mapping out a course through unfamiliar woods with only a broken compass and a deflated football. It glides backwards and swallows me whole.
"You return my hole this instant!" I cry to the shriveling night.
But listen it does not and I'm left to my devices. Like an uprooted floorboard I stalk through the dark and massage my careful way back towards home.

The rest of my life played out like a rusty tap welded to a light-bulb.