Bullets Can'T Dance

The air stale, thick and cloudy with years of gin soaked carpet odor and cigarette vapor of inconsiderate drag and chain smokers. The colors smear together and the music disconnected and hypnotic. The smell of flat beer and warm rye burn the notrils with every inhale and the sweaty bodies of strangers press together in a desperate attempt to be socialble. HE stands alone in the back of the room. The blood dribbles inside his shirt. No one knows. HE watches his girlfriend grind her hips into a nameless figure while trying to reach for his drink. His fingers barely around the glass, he tries to move it to his lips. His hand shakes and he drops the glass and feels it wet and sharp as it shatters on the floor and rebounds off his shoe. No one knows. A lake of blood has formed along his waistband. His color has drained to a party white and his finger nails a greying blue. The music thumps in his ears and pushes it's beat against the one of his fading heart. His girlfriend flings her hair and gives a pathetic yet flirty laugh to her dancing stranger. A laugh that only she can hear. The stranger held her waist as they danced and blew smoke past her red and watery eyes. HE is slumped against the wall with the base of the table holding his feet in place. His hair is soaked to his head and his shirt possessing a crimson river threatening to seep through the fabric and leak. The pain of the bullet lodged in his stomach was searing dry heat from inside his body. He hides his agony. His girlfriend sharing her tongue with the dancing stranger in sensual vulgarity. She see HIM in the back and thinks he's drunk she turns so he can watch her taste the other mans mouth while keeping her eyes open. He feels more hate for her. She makes him sick. More tortured memories from the fight earlier that night. Now one more flavor of the evening she visually disgusts him with. Nothing changes. She is heartless and he is dying. No one knows. No one cares. He can only see her now. The room has enclosed around him and peripheral sights have gone dark. The music is distant and the beat skips in his ears. He watches her walk out with the stranger. She looks back at him and flashes a slanted lipstick thick smile that only a wench likely her knows how to give. His eyes open yet glazed. The gun falls from his own hand. He is dead and no one knows. Shauna Woodbury