Business.
David isn’t Patrick Bateman, no. He isn’t Travis Bickle deranged,
he’s simply kempt. Face bathed in soap, tailored in Valentino layered coats
strictly arranged. Fickle, in gator toes. Lapping the ladder rungs,
watching as colleagues slip from the gable’s ropes back to the cattle run.
Detached, with a smile flashing off of his platinum tie clips
with patented dryness. Can’t recall the last he saw of the back of his eyelids
off on his Zoloft and Ritalin coughs. Driven. Medicated in a millionaire loft,
living in salt. Capitalist chakras in tune. On business, he’s visited Prague
and Ibiza, only to know their every marketable feature. His margins aligned,
a cognizant leader with a slight temper and dulled spark in his eyes.
He meets Ava in a bar, of course. She’s wearing Gothika chic and pockets of lint.
Little tassles, lockets and trinkets. Soft in the cheek, she moves like a walking of winks,
adorned with the gaudiest ringlets. Black sheer stockings with her body anemic,
she frolicks the scene, often caught with a free drink from the Johns she was seen with
while David sat sated, starched. A suit, holding an Old Fashioned fashioned with Maker’s Mark
annoyed that the napkin sticks. Passive. A pacifist in matching wits in a scene so dark.
So when she sits down, it’s an adrenal spark. Flush of face in an awkward pause.
This is no place for business cards. There’s no Action Plan if you can’t chart the cause.
He’s fucked his whore or two. Of course. But there’s a difference between rotten and fresh;
“Want to buy me a drink?” He nods with a “Yes.”
“Your performance has declined as of late, David” says the Chairman.
David doesn’t know gossamer from satin. Is gossamer satin?
Lost in the patterns. Aloft, drinking coffee with her is Latin. Innate.
Naked cross section of passion. Winterlove, winter in cabins. She’s late.
Often. Ava is the watch. Time is so latent. Time is so late.
What is a problem? Cross legged, thatched in a snowy mornings wake.
So foreign, these once pressing capitalization rates.
Cracked fire wood is the pace. Slow. Soaking in every falling flake
outside. Fingertips fire. A single blanket, an ice rink once called a lake
as a view. Teenage dream, renewed. The lack of a ledger,
warmth in Ava. At peace, eyes now undulled, together.
“We need to have a serious talk.” says the Chairman.
It’s an interlock of moonlit fingertips. Surround sound tinnitus. David locked into her. Life's lack of animus. Her locked into him. The big bang phantom dust. Neutron candle lust. Disregard of the rational. She’s his ration, him hers. Each other’s hymn verse. From here to sand, to dust.
“You’re fired.”
“I’m pregnant.”
Freedom. What's to your goal now?
"None. I'm happy."
