I sat , drifting through the tale of scientists, and the Antarctic, and the horrors that dwell beneath its millennial frost. An exquisite tale, meant to be fearful, told by a Rhode Island man of the Early 20th century. Captivating and evocative, one could well feel the harsh climate, as well the near maddened intensity the characters brought to bear. It was while within the pages confines, that I heard a voice, one so sweet with life and purity that even the most appealing of fruits could not seek to match it. This voice ripped me back to reality with the same guttural ferocity and bloodied violence normally reserved for those at the end of labour.
"Excuse me," came this voice, borne of sunlight and meadowlarks "Can I ask you a question?"
I momentarily closed my eyes, the blistering wastes of a far flung continent receding from my sight, as I opened them again, to the moderately lit booth I occupied within this Toronto bar.
Looking up towards her, I smiled, intentionally shielding my mangled teeth behind slightly cracked lips, and responded "Of course, miss, what can I do for you?"
"Well, some friends and I were wondering... why are you here?"
"Do you mean in a factual sense, or a philosophical one?"
She looked momentarily confused, as though, somehow, either one was the likely option. "I'll take factual for now."
She leaned oddly over the table, strands of blonde hair falling down in front of her chest like photon and liquid platinum. My eyes wandered, much to my own irritation, before shifting to her wickedly azure eyes.
"Have a seat for a sec, and I'll tell you."
She smiled warmly and slid into the booth opposite me, pushing the coats out of the way. Turning, I pointed towards the dance floor. "You see the brown haired woman there, dressed in a truly beautiful manner, exuding sexuality the way a candle might give off heat? "
She nodded. "Your girlfriend?"
I smiled again and shook my head "Would that your words and my wishes could make that a reality. No, I lack the skills necessary to court a lady, her or any other for that matter. Instead, I'm here so she, as well as my other traveling companions, can have some fun."
"Others?" She quested, and I proceeded to point them out: the brown gentleman, bearing a garment as white as the ice upon which my mind had tread. The skittish blonde lad, nary a few years my younger, but both more nervous and more trusting, than I could hope to be. The pale brunette, whose flesh was fit, despite being only a few shades warmer than my own. And finally, the smiling dark haired gent, who seemed as much thrilled to be dancing, as to be here or anywhere else.
"So you came, for them, or with them?"
"Both, in a fashion." I responded as I took a rather extended sip from my glass of stout. "Should they need me, I am here for them. Otherwise, I am merely here with them."
"Then why consign yourself to a booth, rather than be out on the floor with them?"
I restrained a chuckle "Because madame, I don't dance. I'm perfectly content to sit here, drink my Guinness, and read my book. Now, might I ask you a question?"
She smiled again, a look that served only to accent the exalted nature of her voice "You may."
"Why did you so choose to come and ask me about my presence here?"
She smiled and rose from the booth. "It's rare to see a man here. And it's even rarer to see one more intent upon a book, than the women around him."
This time, I did chuckle as I lifted my book "We all have our peculiarities miss, mine just so happens to be restraint. Would you rather I be fawning and panting over every woman that sees fit to walk by my table?"
"No, no I suppose not."
"I thought not. As it is, enjoy your time here, and have a good night there after."
"You too mister...?"
"James." I responded as I held out my hand.
"Angela." She said as she took mine in hers and we shook.
"Thank you Angela. I shall."
With that, she returned to the crowd with spawned her, and I to the words that kept me.
Nothin' like insomnia, oversleeping, and Chambers to truly convolute a man's thoughts. As it stands, I wonder inwardly why I chose to reference At the Mountains of Madness rather than The King in Yellow. Perhaps fair Carcosas vistas have yet to be opened to my minds waiting eye.
Night folks, hope you enjoyed this meandering excerpt of dementia, and hopefully I'll get some damn sleep.