I met you in some low end bar up in Nebraska.  A place that was dirty, grimy and yet somehow so familiar.  I didn’t want to be there, but I did; the two ends of my brain arguing in my mind and nearly driving me insane.  I brought a book, sitting in the corner and smoking a fag and wishing that they would play jazz music instead of this bullshit.  I don’t even know what genre of music that can be labelled.

I don’t remember the bars name.  I hardly remember yours.  I just remember you sitting across from me.  I could see dark hair over the top of my book, but I was hardly interested.  You ordered a gin and tonic, my subconcious told me, and a vodka straight.  I thought that was weird.

I was sipping on my tequila (straight, if you recall.  I don’t drink pussy drinks) and was engrossed in the works of Murdoch.  I wasn’t 21 yet, but in this bar, all they cared about was the money, not the age.  In this case, that old, nasty bar worked to my advantage.  I hadn’t meant to get drunk, but then again, I hadn’t meant for you to come along either.

“I’ve read all of her books,” I heard your voice say.  It was low and deep, with an accent.  I looked up and then looked back down again.  I really didn’t want to talk.

“My favourite is ‘A Fairly Honourable Defeat.  And do you know why?”  I made no motion nor response, but you continued on anyway. “Because the good guy loses.  And that’s how life is like.”

You downed your entire shot of vodka and I raised my eyebrow.  “So which are you?”  I asked, not closing my book but not reading it either.

You looked at me and shrugged.  “I guess I’m the bad guy.”

I didn’t ask you why you thought you were bad, but I did have an inkling of curiousity.  “Good and bad are relative,” I said, “I don’t think it matters which you are.”

You laughed and it was low and seductive, just like the way you spoke. “Only those words could be spoken by one who is good.”

I didn’t understand your logic, but you had my book closed and I was talking to you now.  One after one, we downed our tonics and our vodkas and our tequilas, somehow sober enough to get into your hotel room and still continue on about philosophy and politics (a topic I could care less about, really).  Somehow we were sober enough to light the fags and drain them dry and to throw our clothes off and let the sea of desire overtake us.

Or maybe we did all these things because we weren’t sober.

The next morning I woke and found myself next to you, in the fetal position.  Your arm was around me, but it was as if I had shrunk away from your touch.  I got dressed and left you there, alone in your hotel room, probably the way you had been the night before, and I went off to my destination, without even the slightest hangover.

I left you a note, so that you would know, that if the world came down to the two of us, you would be the good guy.