Vitriol is a Dying Art

“You’re pathetic!” she spat.

“Yes? Well hey everybody! Listen to the all-pervading harbinger of experience, truth and absolute wisdom! Tell me about love, Louise. Tell me what it’s like for you. I’ll show you mine if you show me yours – shall I start?”

He stood, the conversations on other tables slowly fading, all eyes attempting to focus on the pair of them through the cigar smoke and alcohol fumes.
“Try loving someone you can’t have so much that, when they bury her, you cry harder and longer than the widower – that hurts.”

Alex’s temperature had risen, along with him – the forefinger of one hand pressing violently down on the table, the other pointed accusingly at Louise. He sat down gently, straightening his jacket. He suddenly felt drained. The room fell silent, as Alex reached inside the left breast of his jacket and pulled out a revolver, retracting the safety as the muzzle touched his right temple. He frowned. Suddenly the room exploded into a frenzy of blood-spattered hysterical women, and crying men. The blood! Louise had never seen so much blood.

She paid the bill in full with the right money (the service had been lousy), stood up, turned and walked away.

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