Benjamin Brown Stone ran his hand up the back of his shaved head. Up and down, the sound of day old hair grating against his soft skin. It wasn’t natural for a man to have such soft skin, at least not according to the outdated beliefs of his outdated father. . . the same man who agreed to Brown Stone as an acceptable surname. Brown from his mother, Stone from his father. Neither bright or sharp enough to at least make it one word and save him a life of questioning.
The lids of his eyes followed the movement of his hand as it went up and over his head. His baby-like skin slipping down his forehead, covering resting on top of his eyes. Looking into the darkness before him, Benny reached out until the cold, wet drops of condensation were slick across his finger tips. He wrapped his hand around his lager, only opening his eyes as his glass returned to the bar half empty.
A severe light, bright and cold against the aged ambiance of the bar reflected off the empty portion of the glass. The email from last week still pulled up. Still boring into him.
As Henny updated you, this week I am still working from the house but will be returning to the office next week. I have been getting the ball rolling with the girls from L&M. Next week we officially begin work.
Cheers,
Benny Stone
So many things, like his lager, had been there before they were gone. In almost the same time he could read the email out loud had it all gone away: Henny, the week, the house, the office. . . He wasn’t certain what had happened with the girls or L&M, but he knew. He knew, like everything else, it was gone. At least for him.
His stale breath wrapped itself around the glass forming a cloud thicker than the air around him. It was suffocating and yet there was no substance. There was nothing just the bitter taste of good things gone sour. Of an overly hoppy beer.
A laugh, throaty and marred, caught Benny’s ear. Anything to tune out his own melodramatic thoughts – if Henny were here, that’s what she’d tell him. Henny’s voice. . . the voice that cut through his reverie was just as harsh as the laugh. It was branded with years of cigarettes and rough sex. The promise of both hung in its notes as they traversed through the folds of Benny’s brain. Avoiding the rot spots the same way amputation would manage a paper cut.
“Hey handsome,” the voice cawed. “What has your glass so empty?”
Benny opened his eyes. The painted face framed with dried blonde hair stared back through the clear pint glass. Long streaks of condensation hid the impending age of beholder. He shifted in his seat, adjusting himself, his view.
“Let me guess? A long story?”
“Something like that,” Benny answered.
“See if you can tell it over this beer.”
Benny’s eyes watched as rough hands slid a new beer his way. Hands that he should have had. Hands of a worker, not a thinker. According to his father, no one could get paid to think forever. Benny couldn’t imagine if his father knew what Benny knew now. . .
“That’s a long story for a short time,” Benny answered. “How about you tell me about you?”
A storm shook the foundation, clouds rolled over the blue eyes in sharp contrast to the blue tinted eye makeup. A dark smile jolted through Benny’s core.
“How about I show you?”
Before the condensation could form Benny’s beer was gone. Faster than Henny, the week, the house, the office. The rough touch of something real. From the back of his eyelids, Benny searched for anything to anchor himself to, but all that remained was the harsh voice of a soul older than time.