Three Olives in the Cold, Salty Brine
Just another night sitting in the neon flickering dimness, in a roomful of smoke and strangers.
Photo by masahiro miyagi on Unsplash
no spirit gonna silence the static in my head
still, I'm here nursing a dirty martini
believe it or not, it's just the olives I crave
I've been thinking
maybe I should buy the whole jar and skip this whole town
but instead i'm glued to the stool
watching strangers trying to pick each other up
he's on his umpteenth try, i'm looking for a sign
is she the one for the night or just another line?
he hasn't picked up no one yet, just tabs in the tray
as the flickering neon fading into the gray
one contemplation
should I stay for one more or is it time to leave?
the more that I watch, the more confused I am
three hours have passed, his glass is running low
his companions left one by one
he's still sitting there by himself
as his connections evaporated into the night
he finds the comfort in the blank slate of a face
unfamiliar strangers, shedding the weight of a past tense
no competition, no condescending stares
from the ones he left behind with their uninvited cares
no weight of a name, no expectation in sight
just two passing shadows, conversing through the night
he's heading home now, settling the bill
back to the rhythm that suits him still
a tiny Chihuahua waiting by the door
doesn't demand him to be anything, or anything more
tomorrow is a brand-new page to turn
a lesson in the salt, a truth that I learned
three olives at a time, in the cold, salty brine
sometimes we just want a conversation where no pressure resides
I'm exhausted from living on defense 24/7. I'm tired of explaining. I'm tired of apologizing for everything and anything. I just want a conversation where the air isn't thick with the need to prove myself - a space where, for once, I can simply exist without being torn apart by the people I thought should know me better than anyone.
Sometimes I wonder if people actually want my presence, or if they're just waiting for a performance. Too often, it feels like they aren't looking for a connection - they're just looking for an audience for their own monologue, and I'm the captive.
This is probably why I’ve found more genuine kinship among my fellow writers. We engage in deep, honest conversation, unburdened by the weight of expectation.
In the past, some might have called me a sad case for finding more connection with people online, strangers whose faces I’ve never seen and whose locations in this world I don’t know than with the people standing right in front of me.
But they don’t see it the way I do.
I may not know what they look like, but we can speak human to human, heart to heart.
©Britt H.
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