Problem was, of course, that Josh still felt. Which was – yeah, a really bad thing. Bad, bad, bad (bad company, 'til the day i die). He was drinking to forget. Drink, drink, drink some more (why can't we not be sober) – forget, forget everything, sleep – perchance to dream – descend to the realm of Morpheus. Morpheus, Trinity, Neo. Wait. Wrong mythos. Bet Neo didn't need to drink to forget. 'Course, that's that the Matrix was for. Not that Neo needed the Matrix. Neo was beyond the Matrix – he was the One, after all. Total bad-ass. And screwing the hot babe in leather. Josh hadn't screwed anything except his right hand in so long that he was thinking of applying for Born Again Virgin status. Not that he had any idea of how to apply for that. Could he apply online? Was there a fee? A website? Should be. Websites for every other fucking thing. Then again, if he was in the Matrix, he could just declare himself a Born Again Virgin and be done with it, start over. Wipe the slate clean (i notice the floor and see it needs sweeping). Erase his entire reality. Erase the sticky countertop – stained almost white with beer, erase the overwhelming stench of yeast and grease and sweat. Erase the smoke – heavy and thick in the air – acrid as it burned his lungs with every drag of his cigarette. Erase. Delete. What would that be like? Seeing the world again, experiencing everything for the first time? Inhaling that first deep lungful of air, the first flash of color that would turn into shapes and faces and objects recognized through repetition and time. What would it be like to see purple again (purple rain, purple rain) – vivid, royal purple, so deep as to be black, but softer? Yellow, with its bright, glorious flash? To hear music for the first time again – pick out the beats, the rhythm, the cacophonous noise so annoying by itself, but beautiful when repeated, layered with other beats, other songs, lyrics. Harsh clang of guitar wailing into virgin ears (like a virgin, hey!), bits of lyrics that get stuck in your head for days (happiness is a warm gun, yeah), pulsing, primal bass that bleeds into eardrums and make the heart beat heavy and thick. What would it be like to be a virgin again to everything, to experience the first kiss, taste chapped lips, feel silky skin? To taste foods again – that first, rich burst of chocolate hitting your tongue, numbing bite of ice cream on your teeth (but only coconut), thick, sweet coat of honey sliding down your throat. Wait. An experiment. He was an actor, after all. He'd simply will himself into nothingness. Josh downed the last of his, um, eh, a number was just a number (what are words for) – even though he was pretty sure it was higher than six – Jack & coke, felt that sting – still not drunk enough – washed it with a bit of water. Cleanse the old palette. Close your eyes, (rockabye, baby)...no, wait. No lyrics, back to nothing. Not the antithesis of something, but the absence. Not present. Not there. Vacuum. Void. Black behind his eyes, muting into a steady sort of brownish/grey. Willed away the noises around him – goodbye to the jukebox currently wailing out some song by a boy band or another (kinda infectious, though), the muted murmurs of the other patrons, bright laughter to his left, street noise from the bar. You are nothing. There is no traffic, no horns, no ding of the register, no cellphone playing "Fur Elise". There is no spoon. Okay, and no pop culture references either. Nothing. Vacuum. Void. Blocked out all smells – stale air, cigarette smoke, pungent scent of alcohol and almonds (probably the amaretto). No need to breathe. No lungs. No capillaries. There is no chair under you, no itch on your thigh because you have no thigh. No tongue that feels swollen from too much alcohol, no glass, slick with condensation, under your hand. No hair falling into your forehead. You have no forehead. You have no identity. Nothing. The silence turned into a roar turned into an anti-roar turned into a static that simply ceased. The black turned into a grey turned into a brown turned softer turned flat. Something beyond numb, beyond Zen, beyond Nirvana and the loss of consciousness. There was no consciousness. The void ceased to be. * * * "He asleep?" "Looks dead." "Oh, fuck, oh man, oh fuc – " "Relax, Hugh, he's not dead." Ewan shook his head, stubbed out his cigarette in the ashtray next to Josh's still fingers. "Looks like he's meditating." "Here?" Orlando glanced around at the crowded bar, teeming with people and noise. "Bit of an odd place to practice pilates." "Pilates isn't really about intense meditation," Tom said, passing his glass of wine back and forth between his fingers. "It actually started when – " "Save the lecture." Ewan laid his hand on Josh's shoulder, shook gently. "Josh?" Orlando snapped his fingers in front of Josh's unblinking eyes. "He's gone, mate." "Anyone know why he'd be meditating or playing dead when he was supposed to be meeting us an hour ago?" Hugh asked. "Girlfriend left him." "And you know this because – ?" Orlando shrugged, gave Ewan a measured look. "Because he told me." "Ah." "Not like that, Ewan." "Is it going to be like that?" "You get the feeling they're speaking in another language?" Hugh whispered. "Yes," Tom whispered back. "Now hush." "Might be," Orlando said, answering Ewan. "Not rushing into anything." Ewan grinned, wicked, quick. "Perhaps you should try another way to wake him, then." "He's not asleep." "You could pretend he is." Orlando gave Ewan another long look before slipping into the barstool next to Josh. "Not a word of this to anyone," he said, fully expecting that what he was about to do would be all over set by breakfast. Still had to keep up appearances. "Our word," Ewan replied, cupping his hand over his lighter as he lit another cigarette. "What he said," Hugh stated. Tom just nodded. Orlando bent his head, lips covering Josh's slack ones. * * * Awareness creeping, tickling, air filling his body, tickling his cheek, warmth on his lips. Blood winding through his veins, lungs expanding, arteries contracting, heart beating, muscles moving, bones shifting. Muted voices, indistinct, yet familiar – an echo of something, half-remembered. Feel of satin against his skin, almost painful in its obscene softness, steady beat in his ears, the rhythm slow, ponderous, yet not unpleasant. Rough, flat surface under his hand, sticky-damp with...something. Wet silk parting his lips, reaching tentatively to meet it, light bursting on his tongue, tasting sweetness and smoke, acrid honey. Black, brown, gold, amber – the vague shapes becoming a recognizable pattern – wide eyes staring back at him, smile curving wet lips. Awareness in the shape of beauty. "Welcome back."
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