A Shift in the Cards

©2009-2012 ~onesummerago

I hope you all enjoyed my poem yesterday. The story it told was pretty personal, in some ways.
If you didn't...well, Anora will be back to posting soon enough and you won't have to deal with my numerous posts. So, just chill, seriously.

Regardless, these Fridays are my regular posting days. As such, I'm going to continue Act One of "Her Presence versus Fate." The first line will probably allude you to the new problem facing Damien as the story advances several months into the future. This will be the first time I've written about these kind of subjects, so I hope the story turned out as well as I'd like.

"Her Presence versus Fate"

Act One:
Scene Two

        I’ve been here three nights in a row. “She’s pregnant,” I type while taking along swig of the lager the barkeep had freshly poured into my mug. This bar seems more and more like a sanctuary the longer I stay. Amber and I met five months ago, five days ago. Lust knows no bounds, but its causes probably come from resolution made upon lost dreams. Definitely, Amber is sweet, cool, smart, and possibly everything a guy like me should hope to find so randomly. Yet…something seems to be missing, and I can’t describe what it is.
        A response to my text causes my phone to vibrate while my second swig flows gloriously down my throat. I press a button to read the message. “WHAT???” Alisa had responded.
        “She’s pregnant. How much clearer could I be?” My thumb hits send and returns me to my thoughts. I never quite no why sleeping with a woman so early seems so acceptable. Obviously, I knew something like this would happen eventually. There never seems to be a silver lining to these sorts of things. My phone vibrates again, and again, and again. I glance down and see the old picture of Alisa and I smiling identifying the caller. Calmly, I pick up the phone and slide a bar down to answer the call. “Hey,” I say, not really feeling like hearing her berate me.
        “Hey….WHAT THE FUCK?!” I have to pull the phone from my ear, so that my ear doesn’t catch the brunt of her yelling. “How can she be pregnant?! Didn’t you guys use protection?!”
        “No dip, Sherlock,” I sip at my drink, “accidents happen.”
        “But…”
        “Don’t worry so much. She wants to abort anyways.” The bartender flashes me a soft look while he cleans a mug with white cloth. I nod at him with a smile, while lifting my mug a bit, as if to say: “I know, it sucks.”
        “How do you feel about that?” Her tone suddenly changes from anger to concern. I place my mug upon the counter and scratch my head, trying to conger some thought from my depressed brain cells.
        “I don’t know…” I say at length. “The entire situation has made me think about some things, and…I don’t know…I guess there are some changes that need to be made.”
        “Like what?” For some reason, I can’t decipher her tone. My thoughts split and it takes me longer than normal to reply.
        “I don’t know…It could be the alcohol talking, but I’ve just been thinking a lot about the conditions under which the two of us met…Maybe I don’t feel as deeply about her as I thought…” I shrug, as if she could see my motions
        “You’re drinking?” she asks with more worry.
        “Yeah. So?” More lager enters my mouth in defiance of her reaction.
        “I have to go.” She hangs up. Silence enters the other end.
        “Fine,” I state, half-slamming the phone back onto the counter. I drain the last bit of drink in my mug, my third mug that night. I guess I’m a little buzzed, but so what? Who cares? If she keeps the baby, my life is over. If she doesn’t, well…life still looks miserable. I reach into my pocket and pull out a five dollar bill.
        “Hey barkeep. Another lager please?” I place the money on the counter and watch as the middle-aged man comes over.
        “Son,” he says to me, “maybe you shouldn’t drink so much tonight. You obviously have a lot troubling you. Alcohol never solved anyone’s troubles. Take your money and go home while you can still walk.”
        “But…I just want to forget…her…” I mumble with downcast eyes.
        “I understand the pain. Look around you, I’m sure many of the men in here do, but time solves those types of wounds and alcohol shortens time. Where’s the logic in it all?”
        “I know—”
        “Damien…” I turn around, and Alisa is standing in front of me with worry in her light blue eyes. She looks pretty—beyond pretty—and is dressed in a way to emphasize such looks. Her light-brown hair is braided in one, long strand, passing by the right side of her worrisome expression and down her front.
        “Hey…” I answer, shocked that she actually remembered the bar we met at or that she would come at all. “What are you doing here?”
        “I was worried and had to make sure that you were okay.”
        “Of course I’m—” My speech stops abruptly as I see the tears about to form about her face. The sobering effect of her expression hits me hard. “Hey, barkeep…” I say to the man behind me. “Thanks.” I stand up, leaving the money behind, and place an arm around Alisa. “It’ll be fine,” I console her.
        “I just hate to see you so sad,” she confesses as two streams of tears make their tracks upon her face.
        “I know. I know.” I speak without knowing anything at all. “Sometimes life just isn’t all that great. I should know that by now.”
        “Damien…” I open the door and allow her to leave before me.






Fate, guide me to what's right.


~Alex