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paint a picture for me....i like pictures...it can be anything.

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ORIGINAL: LaMalinche

It is a warm sunny day with a light breeze.  I sit at a pub table, looking out over the Chesapeke Bay.  The water sparkles, and you can hear the sounds of families as they browse shops and eateries.

By my side, my lover, his hand resting on my knee, as we speak of inconsequential things, just enjoying each others company.

As I pick up my drink, I lean into his chest, warmed from the sun.  His hand strokes my hair, stopping at my neck to rub it a bit.

The cold beer slides down my throat, and I turn my head to take a drag off of his cigarette. 

The smoke seems to mix with the few wisps of clouds in the sky, as we wait for our orders and watch the Coast Gaurd Cadets at rowing practice.

*sigh*

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ORIGINAL: VandalHeart

11:30 P.M.  Dark Thirty, as they refer to it here in Sin City.  The real one, not the comic book.

The air is acrid and thick with cigarettes from the general mill of tourists, the ones we call tourons - tourist morons - cloves from the goths and the tarot readers - they hate each other, but at least they can agree on one thing - cigars from those fat but friendly italians from the restaurant a few blocks away that never makes enough money to be anything but a front for the mafia.  Everyone in the Crow Bar welcomes them with open arms and a call of welcome, though.  Every last one of them is safer than the law in this fucking town any day of the week.  I chuckle and down the next shot of Frangelico, musing that if I ever find a clean cop here in the Big Easy, I'm calling the goddamn SPCA to report the endangered species I just found.

The personification of Old Man River himself sits down across from me.  His face looks how the air smells - old, misused, and rotting fast.  He doesn't say a word, just stares at me for a moment before turning his attention to the four shots left sitting in front of me.  I know he's drunk.  I know he hasn't eaten.  What his hollow eyes beg for is one more contributing factor in a long line leading to a very bad conclusion.

"Name," I say.

"Jones," he says.  I nod and trace the outer rim of the closest shot glass to him.  "You?"

"Ice," I say.  "Hungry?"  His attention returns to me with renewed pain and wanting.  At least I have that working for me.  I raise my hand and get Orchid's attention.  She asks me with her eyes if I'm in trouble, and I signal no, just come here.  She walks over and I order two more rounds and a double order of aligator sausage.  She nods and returns to the bar, but not before giving me a warm smile.

Just then, the sound of my favorite band at the time start to bleed from the cadillac jukebox in the back.

Was down at the New Amsterdam,
Staring at this yellow haired girl...

All of a sudden, I notice that Orchid has in fact bleached her hair to a medium blonde.  Jones, right on cue with the lyrics, tries to start talking to me.

"Talk, or food and drink.  Your choice."  He chooses, and I listen to my song, unhindered by blather.

For teh next four minutes, I have one of the most surreal experiences I will ever have in my entire life.  Orchid flirting with me at fourty paces.  Smoke blinding all but the most constitute patrons.  Gorgeous girls of all shapes, sizes, ages, and walks of life pepper to bar and tables.  Jones and I survey them all and share a meal and a drink, but no words.  Words would ruin this.  I knew that from the start.  I think he gets it now, too.

"Mr. Jones and me,
We stare at the beutiful women.
We all want to be big stars,
But we don't know how,
And we don't know why.
When I stare at that television,
I want to see me,
Staring right back at me..."