Old Fashioned Fantasy

Sauntering into the pub from out of the fog the varnished wood paneling on the walls reflecting the amber light from the Edison bulbs in their Art Deco fixtures hanging overhead the air scented with a mixture of lemon and leather I see you sitting alone at the bar as you always are your hair glinting gold with the slightest hint of red You greet me as I seat myself at your side the bartender placing an Old Fashioned in front of me identical to your own but for an extra orange slice He knows by now that’s the way I like it I take a sip as you compliment my dress then inquire as to how I’ve been since last we met I tell you that nothing’s changed or I wouldn’t be here Noticing your glass is nearly empty I order you another dropping the cherry from my own into it as Al Bowlly croons a tune about the moon on the radio I recall how he was killed in the Blitz and buried in a mass grave as if he was no one of any consequence You gaze at me with your azure eyes as I light a cigarette asking once again why I insist on murdering myself I answer you as I have a hundred times before I'm already dead as even someone as celebrated as you will be someday so what does it matter This is all an absurd fantasy anyway The real you doesn’t give a damn what I do