Image Credit: club Bow, NYC (now closed) from Daily Details
Locals call him Red-Eye, always off a midnight flight – he walks crisp in his business suit and blown-back hair – he’s a wind-up doll in jet lag limbo, 30 kilogram bags hanging under his juiced-wide-open eyes, like a corpse revived by witchcraft.
On Red-Eye’s arm, always the bloodshot princess from a dead-beat town, and always her mascara bleeding down her cheeks, following the tear tracks left by mistakes – she’s just what he needs to bring him down and hanging with a dead man fuels her losing streak.
From the trendy clubs they stumble into the street, dumbed down from lack of sleep, nerve endings twitching, can’t decide where to go, what to do, what words to speak, and what are words, anyway? They switch to touch at Red-Eye’s place and toss and tangle on sweaty sheets.
They wake to a world hanging on by a thread, drink their coffee on a balcony overlooking the ruins, take stock of the remains of their minds – the princess shrugs, offers Red-Eye a couple uppers and they smoke their French cigarettes, one eye on Ukraine, the other on Wall Street.
Red-Eye gives Bloodshot the boot, nothing personal, yet the princess, always blindsided by notions of permanence, snatches up her clothes and goes – He cuts himself shaving, She cuts her lip tripping after a cab, and they fumble for mirrors in the bloody panic.
Ripples in water and broken glass flash fragments of their faces, a disco ball loosed and spinning anger and tears like a Jackson Pollock, and the sounds from their mouths become echoes of uncertainty reverberating off the world’s walls.
A discontinuity diverts their scream waves, drops them straight down to gray, and all they need is a little 4-FPP, just a low dose pip to twist the kaleidoscope, intensify the hues of the workday – yeah, it’s the candy, it’s the flip, and we a’ight ‘til the light turns red.
Locals spotted Red-Eye fresh off a midnight flight reeking of urban decay, and on his arm was Bloodshot, her mind troubled by a down trip – Do you think we should crash, Red-Eye? – Fuck no, girl, he said. We’ll have plenty of time to sleep when we’re dead.
Click here for more on prompt “SS2 #7 – too many late nights” from other Sunday Scribblings participants
This drug-free trippin’ was fueled by 152 instrumental techno pops by Horser01