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hai /lit/
critique?
I had no idea that I was being so carefully observed. I was sure that I wouldn’t be followed. Not to Vancouver. But there she was, in the background the entire time, completely unbeknownst to me. In some way, now that I think of it, I knew and hoped that I would be found. What goes up always comes down. Blood is thicker than water. A bird in one hand is worth two in the bush.
It was evening, the sun had already begun to set and was lending everything under it a dreamy glow. The soft light dripped through the windows and onto my feet like a melancholy honey. The pace of the people walking along Granville Street had been reduced from a bustle to a stall, and the sounds of a nearby musician plinking away at his cheap single-coil electric guitar filled the streets. It was a horrible rendition of Jimi Hendrix’ Castles Made Of Sand. It was, by far, the most complete butchering of a song I have ever heard, and it was played very proudly by a mysterious repeat offender.
I peeked out of the awning from time to time in hopes of catching a glimpse of the enigma, but it always eluded me. Every single evening, right after I started my shift at Cafe Soleil, I was subjected to the sound. It resembled a mixture of gin and loneliness, which proved to be a deadly combination. I envisioned the guitarist's fingers messily dragging from chord to chord in a drunken haze, wondering if the next chord was F major or F minor, ultimately playing both. Strangely enough, I learned to like it. The music was comforting in the way that dilapidation makes an old building charming. Every poorly articulated note carried the weight of some unknown struggle, and this man was clearly fighting an uphill battle with something. It was probably alcoholism.
“And so castles made of sand
fall in the sea, eventually...”
I hummed along, pouring a pitcher of cider from the tap, grabbing six glasses and arranging them on a tray. The table I had been serving consisted of a party of five attractive late-teen girls who were abuzz with the aura of rebellion. It was a small place, roughly about the size of a one-bedroom apartment, and I eyed the girls freely as I poured. I stared more out of curiosity rather than desire, wondering what they laughed at, what made them tick, and what could possibly possess their parents to spend upwards of $2,000 on their daughters’ Louis Vuitton purses. I made some terribly funny comment about it being "girls night out" and smiled with a plasticine wink as I delivered their order of drinks. They giggled in blind delight and left a twenty dollar bill on the table upon leaving.
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