Smooth jazz fills the smoky room, but I try to concentrate on the faint pitter-patter of rain. It's more pleasing to my ears. And as I expel a lungful of rose flavored smoke into the empty space, I realize that I'm alone. Not in the sense that I am unaccompanied this evening. No, there are plenty of people around, some of whom would even call me a friend, if such a thing exists.
My isolation is internal, an understanding that I am composed of the same decaying matter as the grass that I trod on so thoughtlessly to get to this hole in the wall.
As I fall deeper and deeper into a drunken stupor, I see things more soberly. I ponder the futility of my action, action in general. Eventually, I just stop acting. Everyone around me seems so giddy, so eager to experience something or other at some point in fleeting time. They try to keep each other entertained with trivial exchanges in the meantime, but I can't bring myself to participate. When I'm called on to comment on some inane subject, I try my best to seem interested, but my words are sparse, my insincerity painfully obvious.
The blue-eyed girl sitting across the table says, "You're awfully quiet tonight." She and her friends giggle as they look to me for a response. The jazz gets louder. What's so awful about being quiet, I think to myself.
"I don't know" is all I can manage to say.
My most sincere words of the night. They giggle again and resume their performance. I lean back and listen to the rain. I decompose.