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7:10 pm Ulsan
Thin girls and flimsy chatter, each as boring as the other. Almost as trite as tonight's apparent favourite colour. Blue. Ugh, I roll my eyes. And roll my eyes, and roll my eyes, because everywhere I look I see it and everytime I see it I want to scream but I can't so I toss my eyes back and roll. And it hurts. Truly. Cross my heart to no exageration. No trying to be poetic, no mistake, no "sight for sore eyes". I just mean it hurts. Like, it really hurts my eyes.
Blue. Roll. Ouch.
Like that.
Can you get how that could drill a nail between my eyes?
An ocean of navy suits, a cluster of middle-aged men, infecting the air with a bitter, bitter, seriously acidic taste. It's bad. The nationalistic sense of it all pales and nauseates. An epidemic, I would say. And the tinge of vomit in the back of my tongue can vouch. Same for the headache.
I truly had - have - have nothing good to say. No nice thought about the banal way every one of them pairs their suit with brown shoes. No nice thought about their lingering hands, their beckoning fingers, obnoxious complaints. No nice thought about the way they move; like a school of fish. No nice thought for the one they follow. Their superior. Their Neptune. Their almighty God and leader of this fascist and fashionless company. And it's he who sickens me most. Standing particularly tall in his blue suit; his head peeking well above the others. As if to taunt, to relish and vex. To remind me, constantly, of his presence. As if the armed force of blue suits wasn't enough...and by armed, I mean with bad breath...and a receding hairline.
Or was that just me? Imagining his mean gaze. Could I be giving this guy too much credit?
I take a swig of my wine - noir - no.
The height is hereditary. That wasn't his fault - me seeing him wasn't his fault. But, my discomfort certainly was. The look of disgust we match when we meet; when our eyes fall on the other momentarily, the unease I got from that was his fault.
