|Simon will just LIVE in this booth forever. (magienoir) wrote in yegods,|
@ 2012-07-22 15:44:00
|Entry tags:||!log, hector campbell, simon renaud|
Ils me manquent.
WHO Hector Campbell & Simon Renaud
WHERE Dive Bar, Somewhere in Alphabet City
WHEN July 22nd, 2012, Afternoon
SUMMARY There's usually a reason a man gets to drinking before five.
In a way, the depression that follows his nostalgia catches Simon off-guard. He hadn't expected to feel troubled by it. Yet, to not be there with his grandparents, listening to the sound of dozens and dozens of rubber tires on the pavement and the roar of the crowd, strikes him as very sad. He wasn't there at this time last year either, though it hadn't bothered him so much. Missing the 14th of July, yes, that had bothered him back then, too, but somehow, this year it feels like there's a painful accumulation of events that he is missing and that his heart is missing. After watching Wiggins take the victory, the television had gone into dull commentary, so he'd turned it off, and his apartment had seemed so silent and empty, and it was... Because he sold that dratted lizard a week or so prior, and the only living thing occupying the space was himself. For a moment, he had a terrible feeling, like he was the last man on earth, but then he could hear cars passing in the street underneath and the muted sound of laughter from a neighboring unit. Still, it was hard to shake that sense of loneliness, that sense of loss.
Sunday is Daisuke's day to just be Daisuke, and often Simon's to just be Simon. Which is fine. Because Simon gets a lot done on Sundays most of the time - cleaning house, homework, violin practice, meeting with Jack, and then watching a movie before bed. Sometimes, there's other things, like shopping for clothing or household items. If all else fails, there's reading. But the bittersweet bug of memory has nipped him, and he can't shake that feeling that he's losing something - or maybe already lost it - so he splashes water on his face, dumps his coffee cup into the empty basin, and pulls on his shoes, intent on taking a long walk with no particular direction in mind. He'll have to be back in a couple of hours to meet with Jack, but maybe if he just immerses himself amongst other humans, he'll feel less alien. So when his legs start to ache, he ducks into the nearest dive bar, ordering a beer, and sits in the corner. There are recaps of the Tour playing on the televisions overhead, but with a beer in hand and a dozen other people milling about nearby, he feels more okay about it.
He's perhaps three beers in when he doesn't notice the buzz that he really ought to. His eyes are still stuck on the screen, though with a half-lidded, detached expression.