She's still there, somewhere, he knows for certain
His head was throbbing this morning, it took every ounce of his self-control not to throw up, that'd be much too embarrassing.
He did not manage to make it home last night, yea the "drink, don't drive" slogan had worked its magic even before Anonymous_X had posted that reminder. So when her friends started leaving the cafe she owned, he sat in the corner, lost in his own stupor. Until someone approached him and offered him a lift.
But he was hesitant about spending some 20 minutes alone in the company of another man who too had given his heart to his Sparks. To put it bluntly, he was jealous as hell, and that emotion was most senseless at this point. He stared at the man who remained standing there, looking expectantly and kindly at him. Hell! He always lost the battle with kindness.
He stumbled to his feet, declining the additional offer of assistance. If he can drink, he can jolly well walk. The other man shrugged his shoulders and smiled: "Hey, you shouldn't feel lousy about this, you know. We all get drunk sometimes, it's not a big deal. Baby'd have a fine time teasing you about it if she can."
He shot the man a glare, thinking it'd silence him, but the man continued: "Baby would've tsk-ed tsk-ed at your action tonight. She'd not want anyone of us, especially those she loved to be this upset."
"Will you f**king stop talking about her in the past tense?! She is still here with us and I'm not going crazy, just in case you're about to say that! So, please, stop referring to her as if she is an item of the past, for crying out loud! Damn it!"
Yes he's completely screwed up this time. For one, the man facing him, on another occasion, at another time, in someplace else, would've been a much-revered contact. Or, as his editor'd call him, an important newsmaker.
It was a silent journey. It didn't occur to him at first, until some 10 minutes later to ask: "Do you know where my apartment is?"
No, said the other man. "But I was thinking you might wanna join me for a drink at one of Baby's favourite holes."
He knew where that was. The place she fondly named TUP, which means "the usual place". It was one that used to be frequented by the scribes, their spot to unwind. He had always wanted to ask her how she'd stumbled across it, but he never had the chance. Guess he'd never know now.
So there they were, two grown men, each lost in their private thought, however connected that thought was between them, mourning the loss of the same woman who had touched their hearts in such a way that there was no turning back.
They spoke very little to each other, their only exchanges were the times when they recognised the occasional song she loves.
Begrudgingly he found a new respect in the other man, when he was invited to spend the night in her lovely home. They lit the candles in her favourite spot, the reading corner, before sleep took over.
And this morning when he was about to leave her home, he saw these words, framed together with a photo of Sparks standing against the light of dusk in New York City. In her arms was a huge bouquet of her favourite flowers, tulips in shades of pale orange.
The words read: "It was dusk, that strange, almost mystical interlude when light and dark are perfectly balanced. Within moments the soft blue would be transformed by the fiery colours of sunset. Shadows were lengthening; the birds were quieting. Oh, how I love the musk of dusk."
It unsettled him tremendously, for he recalled what he had written in the latest entry of DW's Amongst Other Things.
Thus he knows for certain, she is still there, somewhere.
