An Old Bear Of A Tree
She believed in nothing; only her skepticism kept her from being an atheist. – Satre
The night was perfect. Clear. Crisp. It would have felt hollow had there not been so much pent up electricity in the air. The black sky had an unusual piercing of stars scattered among the cloud remnants and of course our faithful old sliver of a moon. Cold enough to see your breath, this was the kind of night that was meant for a soundtrack. A pithy LCD Soundsystem song. Or even better yet, a somber Antlers track. Her jacket had a collar that she would peer over from time to time. I should also point out the buttons. They were big and black and had what looked like little anchors on them. Her nose was cold. I knew this because mine was cold as well. A dash of red that would be the acknowledgement that sacrifices were being made by all. As the music gently hummed along, I tilted my head back and closed my eyes. A dull warmth coming from my fading Clove* cigarette in my right hand.
I knew the lights hanging in the trees were flickering and gently moving in the wind of the old oak. How many times had they danced in that old bear of a tree? Tonight felt like the first time although I know this was certainly a lie. The stone beneath my feet was hard. I felt the heel of my boot grinding into it subconsciously. I was known for my nervous ticks. The patio was full of white noise that included but was not limited to laughter, small conversation, and the occasional YouTube video. As I slowly breathed in the heavy, cold air a small smile crossed my face. She was sitting next to the fire pit. Wearing some sort of white top. I never knew what girls called them. A shirt? A blouse? It didn’t matter because it was paired perfectly with a pair of faded blue jeans. She was sitting in the lap of her friend. Her friend was a brunette and always insisted on wearing green to match her eyes. I thought it was a bit dramatic, but hey . . . to each their own. The embers in the fire were burning on their own by now. Flecks of fire floated up. If I crossed my eyes it was hard to tell where the floating fire ended and the lights in the tree began. My glass made a slight scraping sound as I drug it less than an inch across the hard stone before I picked it up. It was loud enough that I heard but it was obviously lost in the fuzz. More semantics being swallowed whole by the night.
* I had bought a bunch before they became illegal and had been smoking them on special occasions or on nights that were bursting with possibility.
** Soundtrack For Writing: I Don’t Want Love by the Antlers, French Exit by the Antlers, Rolled Together by the Antlers, Corsicana by the Antlers, Dance Yourself Clean by LCD Soundsystem