"What are we doing tonight?" She'd ask. "People watching, that's what we're doing", I'd say, as I said every evening she asked, and that's what we did. That's all we ever did.
We'd go on long drives, staring at the drivers and passengers in the other cars.
Go to busy parks, watch the joggers pass by, imagining their conversations with eachother, filling in the sentences from the words we caught as they flew by.
The solo ones, we'd tell eachother what he or she was thinking, dreaming, how big the fucking morgage is that's causing John's elevated heart rate,
or how much some fucking prissy posch school is charging him and the misses to educate their little litter...
in order for the next generation of well behaved bastards to enter society in a proper fashion.
Bars were always my favourite. The badder and filthier the better. We'd sit in the corner, two darkened silhouettes, our cigarettes lighting up our faces from time to time, watching.
The typical popular crowd humping against eachother, having pissing contests and each looking for something to fuck- wouldn't be the ones who had our attention.
Instead, we'd focus in on the lonely figure at the end of the bar. Fingering his whiskey, staring down into the glass.
"He's heartbroken" - she'd always go to that one first - "She'd run away without telling him why, without telling him that she didn't feel worthy of his love".
I'd nodd along, not in agreement, but knowing her she needed some form of confirmation that she'd been heard.
"She'd run away yes, but with another set of balls!" - I'd think the words but wouldn't open my mouth. She didn't need to have her idea of romance broken.
And that would be our nights. Staring at souls across the bar, judging and discussing why fate had let them end up in this god forsaken shithole.
Telling eachother why the suit clothed man with the three day old stubble had failed in business.
Why the well dressed middle aged woman had turned from a picture of pure sex into an old hag at the bar pouncing on student boys.
Why the bartender had been standing in that exact spot for the last 20 years, and why the only memory of him would be his footprints behind that awful piece of wood they used as the counter.
Looking back now I don't blame her for leaving. I don't blame her for getting bored, bored shitless with judging others, imagining their lives while we drank ours away and dreamt of theirs.
We'd sit, slowly getting pissed, our cigarettes running out. She'd turned to me and referring to the young crowd she'd say- "they're all dying" - ...
and I was to much a ruthless son of a bitch to tell her "no my dear, they aren't, we are."