The Bar at the End of the Universe

[ Upstairs: late-night thoughts ]

( last night: poetry in motion )

The songs he likes most have no lyrics. Only melodies that tell stories of their own. It's his considered opinion that his life has enough stories to tell, but he doesn't necessarily want to commit them to words. Instead, he commits them to song and as long as he knows what tales they contain, he's perfectly happy.

The song he's playing now, for instance, is called Goodnight Julia. It tells a story of war and innocence and intrigue, of manipulation and spying and betrayal, of confidences won and confidences destroyed. Of chance meetings and unexpected friendships and unexpected loss. It's so rich with content, in fact, that his eyes are closed; the notes drift out over the water of the lake and while the night's a little chilly, he's not. He hasn't been cold since he landed here for good. So far that's served him well, but he wonders how long it will last. He remembers how cold Julia was all the time: was it just the difference in the circumstances of their death, or was it something else? What made death so sad and painful for her, but so enlightening and beautiful for him?

He doesn't know. What he does know is that all journeys are individual ones, regardless of who's along for the ride. People, he thinks, are like satellites. They revolve around each other, attracted to one another like the most powerful magnets imaginable. Irresistable in some cases -- he's thinking about Faye right now, with her legs that go on forever and the brilliant green of her eyes and the swanlike curve of her neck, the way she smells like honey and bergamot -- and if a person is lucky, he gets his own personal orbit with the object of his affection for however long the mutual attraction lasts. Ultimately, though, human beings really are alone.

He was on his way to Titan one last time when the universe hijacked him and let him land here. While he's never claimed to be the smartest person he knows, he's not the least intelligent either and because of that, he shakes off any melancholy and lets the song change, lets it start to tell a different story. This one is all about I think you should stay and ruby necklaces and impromptu seductions and letting go of stereotypes.

That's much better. It's hard to smile and play saxophone at the same time, but he's managing to do just that.



[tag: Wanijima Akito]

It's a curious thing, but when he walks by the bar he finds himself dragging his fingers across it. Across her: he remembers Bar's a she -- or so he's been told -- and with that in mind, lifts his hands almost as if he's been invading personal space.

And when he does, he finds a note in his fingers; he has to read it twice.

The first time he thinks it's a mistake, but the second time he's sure it isn't... especially since Charlie's Gibson appears on Bar's surface.

(Oh, Charlie.)

He's been trying not to think about it all: about sitting with Charlie's lifeless body out there under the tree, about helping dig the grave wordlessly and with such purpose, about the finality and the unfairness of it all and at first he won't touch the guitar. It feels all wrong without Charlie here, but... it's his. He's never had anything bequeathed to him before. At long last he reaches over and picks it up, so very tentatively as if it embodies what's left of Charlie's energy, his heart, his soul.

The feel of the thing is palpable; it brings an immediate lump to his throat and his eyebrows knit together and he has to blink away sudden tears. But he cradles the guitar in his arms so tenderly, thanks Bar, and pushes his way unseeingly through the bar and back upstairs. At least there's solace waiting for him in the knowledge that he's wanted... from both sides of the grave he straddles so delicately.