His sorrow was treading water, and no more alcohol could improve his life. He was at the point of oblivion. Andre was buying, and Andre insisted that all Rupert needed was a few drinks and his obsessions would seem meaningless.
“Your problem is that you’re too nice. Women like a man who will take control. You can’t even buy your own drink. Two more Dewar’s.”
Rupert was reaching his limit, but once the copper fluid was in front of him, he took a sip. The flavor of scotch seemed more subtle the further gone he was, and he wanted to savor it while he could. Andre downed his in a single gulp.
“You’ve been thinking about her too long, but she’s not the one for you. You’re just going to have to accept it. She’s seen the weak part of you, and you’re never going to overcome that. No one wants to fuck a boy. Why don’t you try acting like a man for once?”
Andre demonstrated by starting a conversation with a stranger. “Hey beautiful, do you have a defibrillator? Because I’m dying to meet you.”
Rupert was shocked when she laughed. After an initial, “That’s terrible,” she seemed receptive to whatever came out of Andre’s mouth. A little later, when he threw up on the bar, she took care of him and led him out, to her place.
Alone, Rupert finished his drink, and tried tapping the shoulder of a woman next to him. She turned toward him and held her hand to the spot he had touched like it was bleeding.
“Hello,” he said. “I’m dying.”
As he fell over onto her lap, she leapt to her feet and let him hit the wet ground. He rolled around in Andre’s vomit, his manly secretions, and obsessed.
Post Modern Existential Horror 