Join My Cult - Original Falcon Press

“Sort of. Let me put it bluntly—I need a girlfriend. You have Samantha,
I don’t.” His hand waved over his chest for a few moments. “It goes
deeper then that, of course, I just don’t know how to verbalize…” His
face showed smoldering agony for a brief moment. Slowly, his hand
dropped to his side, and the look disappeared, replaced by his usual cold
and yet good-natured visage. He watched a girl on the dance floor while
he spoke. He’d been watching her all night. She had long red hair, eyes
that were constantly roving around, taking in her environment, and she
also had—Ken imagined—incredibly soft, painted lips. Like every girl
he watched, he knew he’d never talk to her, and loathed himself for
feeling the way he did. It shouldn’t be an issue.
He looked Alexi straight in the eye. “I need a person to listen to me
and to listen to, a person to love and be loved by, a person to share myself
with. But everywhere I turn I see nothing but emptiness, cheapness,
and a little buzz hiding behind a crispy candy shell. Are we all incapable
of looking beyond what superficially re-enforces our own insecurities?
These people don’t want love.”
“Ken, you don’t go looking for love. Let me tell you something right
now: for as long as you look, you’ll be rewarded with nothing. When you
finally give up, you will find what you’re looking for. We always get
what we ask for.”
“Always a pessimist,” Ken put out his cigarette and stood up.
“Maybe I am, but that wasn’t a pessimistic statement. It just may take
a while,” Alexi glanced across the table into the group of people gyrating
underneath the countless strobes and black lights. “We look but we don’t
touch.”
Ken wrinkled his brow. “That’s crude.”
Alexi laughed. “That’s not at all what I mean. We don’t put our
money where our mouths are… We are still trapped in our minds…but
not for long… Philosophy is not written by those living life. And yet here
I am: a philosopher, analyzing action. Ready for another bout with the
dance floor, are we?” he asked, getting up.
About twenty minutes later, Alexi was sitting by the bar, gulping
down his third glass of water in a row. He suddenly felt a pull to his left
side, a sort of indescribable tingling, and before he realized it, he was
looking directly at the man he had been staring at earlier. The first thing
Alexi noticed was how bright his blue eyes looked, almost luminous. He
was sitting with his arms crossed, although it somehow made him no less
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