New Year’s Eve 2012

“Long time!” said the barman, smiling with teeth.

“It’s all relative,” replied the iconoclast, smiling. He felt tired.

“The same ole difference.”

“That it is.”

“What that in mind, a pint of decadence once again?”

“What if I said a martini?”

“Splendid!”

“With a slice of lemon peel and two olives that don’t like each other.”

“Keep them coming all night?”

“One empty glass for a full glass till the wee small hours of the morning.”

“Take a seat sir and let the world fall from your shoulders.”

The barman had burnt his thesis during the summer and with it everything he knew. It was nonsensical. I wake up to fall asleep he said and with that supremely brilliant realisation he had never looked back. He was happy.

“I dreamt I was an asteroid,” said the iconoclast.

“I dreamt I was a giraffe and so we are brothers,” said the barman.

The iconoclast thought of an elephant.

“Blue like Picasso and blue like Yves Klein.”

He had not remembered what he had done the last year and the year before and the year to come and the year long, long ago and the year long, long after.

“You know Rome wasn’t built in a day?” said the barman.

“Everything crumbles.”

“Except…” responded the barman, slicing a red apple.

“For…”

“Her.”

“Sunshine.”

“Moonlight.”

“Cat.”

“Piano.”

The iconoclast thought about it and sighed. I like jazz.

“When is the last train out of here?”

“Ask Pessoa.”

“To think is to destroy.”

“Alas sir, you are not an ordinary man.”

They both smiled.

“What are we doing?” asked the iconoclast.

“Falling in and out of love sir,” said the barman.

And with that, the woman in red walked in. She was red shoes, red dress, and red lips.

“Just like that I am in love,” thought the barman and a star exploded far, far away somewhere. Boom boom bang it went.

Ice cream always melts thought the iconoclast and so it is that my heart will stop beating one day.

“You were alive once weren’t you?” said the barman, passing him another drink.

“I figure so.”

“Another galaxy, another world, another language.”

“Something like that.”

The iconoclast remembered a memory of a dream of a memory of something that happened when he was the he that he no longer is.

“Memories,” he said.

“What of them?”

“Nothing.”

The barman reached into his trouser pocket and pulled out a small sun.

“I am going to mix this into your next martini.”

“Marvellous.”

“Quid pro quo – I’m going to smile for you in return.”

And so the iconoclast smiled and so too did the barman and the lady in red.

“Best martini ever,” he said.

“Happiness in a glass my friend,” said the barman.

“Enjoy your dance,” said the iconoclast.

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