Talking things out with a certain someone

I come home after a long and shitty day at the office and am about to plunge down headfirst into the sofa, when I notice two glasses of bourbon on ice resting on the coffee table. ‘Sit down Henry, we need to talk.’ 

‘Well, since you’ve made me my favourite drink, I’ll comply.’

‘Good, because we both know, why I’m here and that you’re never happy to see me.’

I can’t help but grin, blowing over the ice in my tumbler.

‘Fine…,’ I take a sip, ‘say what you have to say.’

He opens his briefcase and takes out a stack of pages. They’re covered in red pen.

‘You know what these are, don’t you…?’

I cross my legs.

‘No idea.’

‘Don’t bullshit me Henry! I know you would recognize your own writing.’

He begins to read over the pages, shaking his head a lot, ‘These sentences are way too long and there’s no way some of these words are proper English, which I am okay with most of the time. But then, there’s also the disturbing lack of creativity in all of this. Like who are you trying to sound like?... Clint Eastwood?’

‘Aww, c’mon man, cut me a break here. I’ve just been having a bad day; everyone has those sometimes.’

I take another sip of bourbon to dull my senses, preparing myself for another barrage of critique. But instead, I get a very concerned look and a long drawn out silence.

‘It wasn’t just today,’ he sighs,’ we’ve been having the same conversation almost every night for two weeks now, and I just don’t now what to say anymore. I mean what is the matter with you, are you all right?’

I have another sip, looking out the window, really hoping to be somewhere out there, on a cloud perhaps.

‘Henry, will you answer me already.’

‘Yeah, I am all right?’

‘Are you sure? Because I think you need therapy?’

‘Therapy! Don’t you think you’re overexaggerating a bit there, pal?’

‘I don’t know,’ he collects himself,’ but the fact that you’re sat here having a drink and talking to yourself, surely doesn’t help your case.’

The nerve on this guy. He’s the one always showing up unannounced. Like I enjoy seeing him this much. I look down at my near empty glass and hatch up a plan. ‘All right, let’s finally have this talk then,’ I say, ‘but quid pro quo, my friend.’ 

He crosses his arms.

‘What do you want?’

‘I want you to finish drinking this bottle with me.’

‘You know I can’t do that Henry,’ shaking his head,’ I always have the one, just to taste. I need to stay sharp so your mistakes don’t end up in the papers.’

‘C’mon, just this once, let’s be friends,’ I refill his glass,’ I know you want to; you’re me after all.’

He takes the drink and looks at it.

‘All right… just… this… once.’

We toast and before I know it, this guy is downing his drinks like an alcoholic. Takes one to know one, that’s for sure. I wonder if giving this guy another drink was such a good idea after all. He swings an arm around me and shouts into my ear, ‘Henry, HENRY! Do you hear it?’

‘Hear what?’

‘…the music…,’ he starts swaying back and forth with me, ‘…it’s gorgeous…’

I don’t hear anything, but as we swing, I can feel the dark pit in my stomach get a little lighter.

‘…Henry, the music… it’s like highest note on the violin or the softest thunder… it’s like the marriage of Heaven and Hell…’ he pauses to think of something better and, when he has the answer, he let’s go of me and hops across the room in plie, ‘it’s like… Mozart, Lou reed, and Freddy Mercury having a threesome…’ 

I watch myself, hop around the room in pure bliss. For the first time in weeks, he seems happy. He seems like the kind of guy to become my bff within in a heartbeat. Then, he suddenly stops in his tracks and turns around, relieved he says: 

‘The music, Henry, it’s us working together in perfect harmony. That’s what it is. It’s what I hear every day, it’s what I want for both of us…But… I guess… I’ve been getting a little to carried away lately… I’m sorry for coming down too hard on you, buddy.’

I smile, ‘it’s alright, buddy.’ Then all of sudden, the dark pit inside my stomach is gone and, slowly but surely, here comes the music. I move over to my desk and sit down at my typewriter. My inner critic looks at expectantly, ‘is it time?’ 

‘It’s time,’ I say and, with my critic looking over my shoulder, I type up my best work yet.