Mole
sassy1085
sillykins
Ammokkx
Mjolnir
Stanifly
SkyeOfStars
Neziul
JJ Doe
Lurking Krog
He built the cocktail in the glass. He liked his spicy, so he went heavy with the Tabasco, and had just been adding the vodka to the spiced lemon juice, though she could see already that he'd given her too much, at east three ounces.
"Hey, let's worry about the maid before I try to find a wife," he said, gesturing sweepingly across the apartment. "Or should I bring her to this dump?" He flashed her a smile just to be certain she knew he was poking fun. But like many smiles, adorning many faces across the city, his belied a stinging sadness. Yes, he had noticed every pretty girl he saw in CancΓΊn, from the vacationers like him to the waitresses who brought his food; he could not choose not to notice those things in life of which he, and he alone, seemed totally deprived. (For it was impossible for Jules to realize that his was not the only phony happiness in the city; he believed their mirages just as they believed his.) Dozens of rejections, in his younger, more idealistic days, had taught him to shut his mouth around these girls. They smiled not to hide their pain and feign at bravery, but to deceive in other ways, toward selfish ends! The tourists wanted him to hold the camera as they took a group photo, or to give them a quick laugh, like some circus freak, with his big ears, and the hair he had grown long to hide them, and his tepid eyes which always looked terrified of some distant threat. Meanwhile the waitresses wanted higher tips. Deep down he must have "known" that even Ona wanted to use him; that he was only worth people's time when he had something they wanted. Though what Ona wanted he could not fathom; a job reference, probably, for when she outgrew Transcomm and decided it was time to move up to Ohmscorps.
Thankfully he was not totally hopeless. Unlike some sorry schmucks, he carried the bitter gift of self-awareness. He knew, and understood, that sometimes he was a miserable person to be around, but usually just boring; and he knew that he preferred being alone on the fringes of the world, over selling his soul to the monkey-dance people performed in their pursuit of wealth, fame, and the superficial happiness they sold in commercials and ads. When he found his happiness he knew it would be the real deal, something profound and rich. When.
"Sorry. No garnish," Jules said, handing her the cocktail. It didn't have ice either, but that was to be expected of someone who liked his drinks stiff. Dilution was one of the great enemies in his little war against mundane life.
"Hey, let's worry about the maid before I try to find a wife," he said, gesturing sweepingly across the apartment. "Or should I bring her to this dump?" He flashed her a smile just to be certain she knew he was poking fun. But like many smiles, adorning many faces across the city, his belied a stinging sadness. Yes, he had noticed every pretty girl he saw in CancΓΊn, from the vacationers like him to the waitresses who brought his food; he could not choose not to notice those things in life of which he, and he alone, seemed totally deprived. (For it was impossible for Jules to realize that his was not the only phony happiness in the city; he believed their mirages just as they believed his.) Dozens of rejections, in his younger, more idealistic days, had taught him to shut his mouth around these girls. They smiled not to hide their pain and feign at bravery, but to deceive in other ways, toward selfish ends! The tourists wanted him to hold the camera as they took a group photo, or to give them a quick laugh, like some circus freak, with his big ears, and the hair he had grown long to hide them, and his tepid eyes which always looked terrified of some distant threat. Meanwhile the waitresses wanted higher tips. Deep down he must have "known" that even Ona wanted to use him; that he was only worth people's time when he had something they wanted. Though what Ona wanted he could not fathom; a job reference, probably, for when she outgrew Transcomm and decided it was time to move up to Ohmscorps.
Thankfully he was not totally hopeless. Unlike some sorry schmucks, he carried the bitter gift of self-awareness. He knew, and understood, that sometimes he was a miserable person to be around, but usually just boring; and he knew that he preferred being alone on the fringes of the world, over selling his soul to the monkey-dance people performed in their pursuit of wealth, fame, and the superficial happiness they sold in commercials and ads. When he found his happiness he knew it would be the real deal, something profound and rich. When.
"Sorry. No garnish," Jules said, handing her the cocktail. It didn't have ice either, but that was to be expected of someone who liked his drinks stiff. Dilution was one of the great enemies in his little war against mundane life.
