PREMONITION
“Would you like another one?” The man sitting at the bar offered a drink to the woman next to
him.
“Ah. I don’t know. I’m getting tipsy,” she said.
“That’s what Friday night is for.” he chuckled.
“Are you trying to get me drunk?” Uma replied in a seductive tone while playing with the empty
glass in her hand.
“I enjoy your company and do anything to prolong its pleasure.”
“Hum. Why am I so skeptical of your intentions then?” she sneered.
“That’s because you’re cynical. I like that in a woman.”
“What else do you like in a woman?”
“Intelligence is my favorite virtue. It may sound like a cliché’ but it’s true.” and ordered two
more apple martinis.
“Let me see if I understand it correctly. You’re half drunk in a bar on a Friday night and
interested only in my intelligence? Obviously my damn cleavage is not doing the trick.”
He laughed.
“What do you do?” Uma asked.
“I’m a businessman.”
“What else do you do in addition to making money and picking up intelligent women?”
“I read.”
“Hum. What do you read?”
“True crimes stories, I’m fascinated by criminal minds.” he replied.
“How interesting! I write crime stories.”
“You write fiction. Obviously you have a criminal mind which is adorable in a woman but there
is a big difference between true crimes and fictional stories.”
“But I’m good; I can make readers believe they’re reading true crimes.”
“It’s not the same my dear. Fiction never replicates reality.”
“Define real,” Uma carped.
“What’s happened is reality and what’s happening is also real,” the man reasoned.
“My crimes happen in my imagination first, so they’re real. Reality is a matter of perception
and not timing. I visualize how a crime may happen and victims willingly conspire with me to
carry out my plots. At the end every piece of the puzzle magically falls into place. Past, present or
future tense has no bearing on reality.” Uma defended her craft,
“Hum. You really are passionate about writing, aren’t you? ” he whispered his slurred words
in her ear. He could almost taste her earlobe.
“Life without passion is not life.” When she twirled the half empty glass in her hand, she gently
caressed his face with a wisp of her hair.
“You inspire me, I feel like writing too.” Her scent was driving him insane.
“It must be the alcohol talking.”
“I can write.” He was offended.
“Believe me, you’re not the type. Get a good night sleep, tomorrow you’ll feel much better.”
“I have stories to tell. All I need is to imagine.”
“Remember, if you vividly visualize an event, you’ve already made it happen. The line between
reality and fiction is blurry. This is what the art of writing is all about,” Uma whispered back.
“Maybe I write a romantic poem or better yet a suicide note, the final words of a man who’s hit
the rock bottom.” his eyes shone with enthusiasm.
“You have a sick mind, I like it. Have you ever thought of killing yourself?” she asked.
“Not really. I’m a successful man by any standard.”
“Then why would you start from there?”
“Because death is so final, to me the mystery of death is alluring. Or maybe because I’m so
afraid of it.”
“That’s how I conquer the abyss of death, by writing it.” She nodded.
“And we all have our own sorrows and shattered dreams in life. A letter like this is venue to
express my despair. Don’t you think so?” he pleaded.
“Write from your heart, and it eventually touches your reader’s heart.”
“Would you critique my writing?”
“You’re not tricking me into a date, are you?” she was now gazing into his lustful eyes.
“We’re connecting on an intellectual level?” he raised his glass and toasted.
“I give you one week to pour your heart on the paper. I’ll be back here next Friday night.” She
then grabbed her purse off the hook neatly located underneath the counter and swirled a half
circle on her stool fixing to leave.
“Let’s meet outside this bar. We can go somewhere with a little more privacy to discuss my
literary piece,” he suggested.
“You’ve got yourself a date Mister. And thank you for drinks.” Uma walked away from the
dazzled stranger at the bar.
On their next rendezvous, the rain was viciously pouring down. When she parked her car and
walked toward the bar, he was waiting for her at the front door trying to avoid splashes of water.
They both ran to his car and sat in half wet and he drove in drenching dark streets for a while
without exchanging words. Then he entered a deserted parking lot and stopped the car.
“I still don’t know your name.” his words were tangled with the wild melody of rain lashing on
the hood.
“How was your first writing experience?” she smiled.
“Exotic. I never had the courage to express my true feelings the way I did here.” He showed
her the letter.
“You just didn’t know how.” she tenderly touched his hand.
“This is a final testament, a desperate attempt to tell a story to ones who never cared to listen.
It’s so absurd that sometimes we have to pay such a big price just to receive a little attention.”
He confessed.
He then opened the glove compartment and showed her a handgun. “I even have my loaded
gun with me tonight to truly capture the mind frame of a desperate man.”
The rain was playing a haunting music in the background when he gently reached the revolver,
put it on his temple and said,”Do you think this is how he would’ve committed suicide?”
She then placed her finger on top of his and pulled the trigger and said, “This is how I write a
crime story,” and left the scene.
“Would you like another one?” The man sitting at the bar offered a drink to the woman next to
him.
“Ah. I don’t know. I’m getting tipsy,” she said.
“That’s what Friday night is for.” he chuckled.
“Are you trying to get me drunk?” Uma replied in a seductive tone while playing with the empty
glass in her hand.
“I enjoy your company and do anything to prolong its pleasure.”
“Hum. Why am I so skeptical of your intentions then?” she sneered.
“That’s because you’re cynical. I like that in a woman.”
“What else do you like in a woman?”
“Intelligence is my favorite virtue. It may sound like a cliché’ but it’s true.” and ordered two
more apple martinis.
“Let me see if I understand it correctly. You’re half drunk in a bar on a Friday night and
interested only in my intelligence? Obviously my damn cleavage is not doing the trick.”
He laughed.
“What do you do?” Uma asked.
“I’m a businessman.”
“What else do you do in addition to making money and picking up intelligent women?”
“I read.”
“Hum. What do you read?”
“True crimes stories, I’m fascinated by criminal minds.” he replied.
“How interesting! I write crime stories.”
“You write fiction. Obviously you have a criminal mind which is adorable in a woman but there
is a big difference between true crimes and fictional stories.”
“But I’m good; I can make readers believe they’re reading true crimes.”
“It’s not the same my dear. Fiction never replicates reality.”
“Define real,” Uma carped.
“What’s happened is reality and what’s happening is also real,” the man reasoned.
“My crimes happen in my imagination first, so they’re real. Reality is a matter of perception
and not timing. I visualize how a crime may happen and victims willingly conspire with me to
carry out my plots. At the end every piece of the puzzle magically falls into place. Past, present or
future tense has no bearing on reality.” Uma defended her craft,
“Hum. You really are passionate about writing, aren’t you? ” he whispered his slurred words
in her ear. He could almost taste her earlobe.
“Life without passion is not life.” When she twirled the half empty glass in her hand, she gently
caressed his face with a wisp of her hair.
“You inspire me, I feel like writing too.” Her scent was driving him insane.
“It must be the alcohol talking.”
“I can write.” He was offended.
“Believe me, you’re not the type. Get a good night sleep, tomorrow you’ll feel much better.”
“I have stories to tell. All I need is to imagine.”
“Remember, if you vividly visualize an event, you’ve already made it happen. The line between
reality and fiction is blurry. This is what the art of writing is all about,” Uma whispered back.
“Maybe I write a romantic poem or better yet a suicide note, the final words of a man who’s hit
the rock bottom.” his eyes shone with enthusiasm.
“You have a sick mind, I like it. Have you ever thought of killing yourself?” she asked.
“Not really. I’m a successful man by any standard.”
“Then why would you start from there?”
“Because death is so final, to me the mystery of death is alluring. Or maybe because I’m so
afraid of it.”
“That’s how I conquer the abyss of death, by writing it.” She nodded.
“And we all have our own sorrows and shattered dreams in life. A letter like this is venue to
express my despair. Don’t you think so?” he pleaded.
“Write from your heart, and it eventually touches your reader’s heart.”
“Would you critique my writing?”
“You’re not tricking me into a date, are you?” she was now gazing into his lustful eyes.
“We’re connecting on an intellectual level?” he raised his glass and toasted.
“I give you one week to pour your heart on the paper. I’ll be back here next Friday night.” She
then grabbed her purse off the hook neatly located underneath the counter and swirled a half
circle on her stool fixing to leave.
“Let’s meet outside this bar. We can go somewhere with a little more privacy to discuss my
literary piece,” he suggested.
“You’ve got yourself a date Mister. And thank you for drinks.” Uma walked away from the
dazzled stranger at the bar.
On their next rendezvous, the rain was viciously pouring down. When she parked her car and
walked toward the bar, he was waiting for her at the front door trying to avoid splashes of water.
They both ran to his car and sat in half wet and he drove in drenching dark streets for a while
without exchanging words. Then he entered a deserted parking lot and stopped the car.
“I still don’t know your name.” his words were tangled with the wild melody of rain lashing on
the hood.
“How was your first writing experience?” she smiled.
“Exotic. I never had the courage to express my true feelings the way I did here.” He showed
her the letter.
“You just didn’t know how.” she tenderly touched his hand.
“This is a final testament, a desperate attempt to tell a story to ones who never cared to listen.
It’s so absurd that sometimes we have to pay such a big price just to receive a little attention.”
He confessed.
He then opened the glove compartment and showed her a handgun. “I even have my loaded
gun with me tonight to truly capture the mind frame of a desperate man.”
The rain was playing a haunting music in the background when he gently reached the revolver,
put it on his temple and said,”Do you think this is how he would’ve committed suicide?”
She then placed her finger on top of his and pulled the trigger and said, “This is how I write a
crime story,” and left the scene.
