passions

“There are only two types of people in the world,” he said without looking up from his glass. “People who go to bars alone and people who don’t.”

I wouldn’t had known he was talking to me if it weren’t for the fact there was no one else around. Maybe he wasn’t talking to me, maybe he was thinking out loud. Nonetheless I was lonely and he was handsome and it was just me and him and the sad half-empty bottles of liquor lining the wall in front of us, so I said, “There are two types of people in the world, people who drink before noon and people who don’t.”

He smiled, turning to look at me and then tilting his head towards the window, where diamond-like drops from the drizzle were sliding down the pane.

“There are two types of people in the world. People who like to walk in the rain, and people who don’t.”

This morning I had wandered the damp streets for an hour, with no sense of purpose or direction, eventually winding up here. I wondered if he could smell the rain rising from my skin.

“People who drive to get somewhere, and people who drive to find somewhere.”

He nodded in approval, took a sip of his drink. I wondered what it was. Gin, perhaps.

“People who want to go everywhere, and people who want to stay in one place.”

“The settlers and the restless.”

“The lovers and the losers.”

“The left and the leaving.”

“People who kiss strangers…” He leaned across the space between us and pressed his lips to mine. It was vodka he was drinking.

He slipped away, settling back on his barstool. I saw his sad eyes and his alcoholic lips with a smile like a riptide in the ocean, like a crack in a frozen-over lake. Outside, the rain became a deluge.

“There are two types of people,” I said. “People who understand, and people who don’t.”