Post by LazyCat on Mar 5, 2012 17:38:18 GMT -5
"Intelligent, handsome, wealthy, thirty-two, and still a bachelor. My son," recites a woman on speaker.
"Yes, mother, well aware," calls the young man, stepping out in front of the large mirror, which reflects a soulless flat. No pictures, no silly accommodation to fill the large, white, empty space. It is modern, stylish, but flat. The only warmth is the bookcases lining the walls with literature, brightening the pasty touch. He is used to these morning rants, it happens quite often now.
"You know, I have some really nice girls who would love to-"
"No, no need," he fixes his tie, nodding at the neat reflection, before pulling on his jacket, "no time," he adds before she can protest. The dear woman did worry herself too much, and did she meddle too much. Being the only son, and the only man between two sisters and a mother, well, they enjoyed to be fickle.
There is a pause, and a soft sigh, which catches his attention. He strolls over, turns speaker off, and presses the phone to his ear- ready to apologize. To cave in, as, admittedly, he is a mommy's boy. "Lucas, it doesn't matter if it is, but be straight with me, are you-"
There is a beep, his client calling, "sorry, I'll talk to you later, I must take this call."
"But, Lucas! Do you like-"
"Hello?" he said softly, pressing the door his flat open, and moving down the staircase. The man on the other line was the average client he got. And the first emotion on the list was anger. He was in the most desperate, desolate agony, love. And the reality that it would never last. Things in life are short cut, and people change, and become dissatisfied. Vows spoken over time, lose their vigor, and nobody stays together anymore.
A job. That is what lasts forever. More than eighty-percent of the population in the world will tinker away in the same profession for the rest of their life. As they become comfortable in those shoes, they despise and fear the thought of change. And Lucas was good at his job, one of the best. He waved down a taxi, and gave his secretary some notice to prepare the papers for his client, as well to expect a handful. He needed to track down the man's partner.
People change. She changed, and in the end, so did Lucas. Sometimes everything isn't good enough, and everything wasn't. There was somebody else, somebody close, and they both left. And he burned the photo long ago, though it still remains vivid in the back of his mind. Her to his right, him to his left. And when he heard the news, he might of laughed. Disappointment. Agony. Constant, never ending, incontestable pain. Goodbye.
Reality is too dull. Too senseless. Full of popular opinion of what relationships should consist of. Sex and profanity, it must get dull. It seems that the simplicity is lost. The joy. Presenting itself only now in the means of which now lined his walls. Literature, novels, fairy tales. What you must call them, fiction. He'd much rather refrain, and die, in fiction.
"We are here, sir."
Funny. To see, know, now that simple words could put a halt to a reality. And begin some incredible fantasy. Just as it begun with a long, huffing journey, up that stairwell, driven by a simple profession. To finish with the press of a button, and well, love at first sight. Of course, then, it wasn't know. It was simply, an irrational annoyance.
Romantic.
"Yes, mother, well aware," calls the young man, stepping out in front of the large mirror, which reflects a soulless flat. No pictures, no silly accommodation to fill the large, white, empty space. It is modern, stylish, but flat. The only warmth is the bookcases lining the walls with literature, brightening the pasty touch. He is used to these morning rants, it happens quite often now.
"You know, I have some really nice girls who would love to-"
"No, no need," he fixes his tie, nodding at the neat reflection, before pulling on his jacket, "no time," he adds before she can protest. The dear woman did worry herself too much, and did she meddle too much. Being the only son, and the only man between two sisters and a mother, well, they enjoyed to be fickle.
There is a pause, and a soft sigh, which catches his attention. He strolls over, turns speaker off, and presses the phone to his ear- ready to apologize. To cave in, as, admittedly, he is a mommy's boy. "Lucas, it doesn't matter if it is, but be straight with me, are you-"
There is a beep, his client calling, "sorry, I'll talk to you later, I must take this call."
"But, Lucas! Do you like-"
"Hello?" he said softly, pressing the door his flat open, and moving down the staircase. The man on the other line was the average client he got. And the first emotion on the list was anger. He was in the most desperate, desolate agony, love. And the reality that it would never last. Things in life are short cut, and people change, and become dissatisfied. Vows spoken over time, lose their vigor, and nobody stays together anymore.
A job. That is what lasts forever. More than eighty-percent of the population in the world will tinker away in the same profession for the rest of their life. As they become comfortable in those shoes, they despise and fear the thought of change. And Lucas was good at his job, one of the best. He waved down a taxi, and gave his secretary some notice to prepare the papers for his client, as well to expect a handful. He needed to track down the man's partner.
People change. She changed, and in the end, so did Lucas. Sometimes everything isn't good enough, and everything wasn't. There was somebody else, somebody close, and they both left. And he burned the photo long ago, though it still remains vivid in the back of his mind. Her to his right, him to his left. And when he heard the news, he might of laughed. Disappointment. Agony. Constant, never ending, incontestable pain. Goodbye.
Reality is too dull. Too senseless. Full of popular opinion of what relationships should consist of. Sex and profanity, it must get dull. It seems that the simplicity is lost. The joy. Presenting itself only now in the means of which now lined his walls. Literature, novels, fairy tales. What you must call them, fiction. He'd much rather refrain, and die, in fiction.
"We are here, sir."
Funny. To see, know, now that simple words could put a halt to a reality. And begin some incredible fantasy. Just as it begun with a long, huffing journey, up that stairwell, driven by a simple profession. To finish with the press of a button, and well, love at first sight. Of course, then, it wasn't know. It was simply, an irrational annoyance.
Romantic.
