Hazel (addictedness) wrote in forgotten_gods, @ 2009-04-06 16:26:00 |
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Entry tags: | grunge, heroin |
Who: Heroin and Grunge
What: A meeting between ex-lovers.
Where: Café Beignet around the corner from Heroin’s studio.
When: Saturday, 4 April 2009, 10 AM
Warnings: Probable discussion of drug use, everything else is tbd.
Spring in New York was different from Spring in Seattle. Washington would just be growing warm, the fountain at the Civic Center filled with running children and caffeinated locals and photo centric tourists. The city’s green areas would be full of students, stretched out to soak up what passed for warmth with free trade coffee in mugs next to beaten back packs. The high heels of professional women would be clacking over the pot hole ridden paved hills of the city while musicians busked on corners and homeless panhandled under fairer weather. Well, some things were universal to cities.
Heroin dropped a five wrapped tight around a small baggie into a saxophone case as he walked by. Jazz had started this all. Leaving Europe, Heroin’s interest had been in publishing and books. Until Jazz. The first club, the only clubs he really loved, with the first new god of music who would turn his life upside down. Heroin couldn’t help but think the saxophone player an omen; passing by his first musical love on his way to see his last.
Grunge. Heroin had spent ten years doing everything he could to not think that name. There was too much that went with it, good and bad and the good hurt so much worse. Every good memory was a mirror. They reflected his actions, his deaths, inescapably. The bad memories were a refuge, a place to hide from the needle under his skin that whispered ‘you destroyed it all.’
The glass door of the café is shoved open, harder that it needed to be, setting the happy bells to clanging in alarm. Heroin grimaces an apology at the waitress, Cleo, before spilling himself into a window seat. He loves the café because it feels like home, a Seattle coffee shop in the middle of New York. Seats are arranged in pairs, big comfortable armchairs and small tables with wireless internet. Billie Holiday is piped through the speakers; hardly more than ambient noise, heart-breaking, terrifying ambient noise.
Even without the omens he shouldn’t believe in, Heroin knew this was a terrible idea. His head falls into his hands with the weight of just how spectacularly stupid it is to meet with Grunge. After everything with Mari, not seeing or hearing from Coke since that horrible, stupid, moronic post he’d left… the last thing Heroin should have ever considered was meeting with Grunge.
But he’d said yes; he would always say yes.