Remorse

Vince Bunnyman picks up the cigarette butt with remorse.
It shouldn’t be there.
He throws it in the bin and looks for acceptance.
The police officer nods and continues on his way.
Clearly a slow day for crime fighting.
Vince walks on.
“So he calls me in the middle of the night and I’m like, Brad I can’t handle this right now”.
Brad is an asshole, and Vince instantly hates him for what he’s done to her.
Lichtenstein was right.
She was better off without him.
Better off sinking lower than she thought imaginable.
She was right to hang up on Brad.
Vince would have done the same thing.
Or at least, he likes to think he would.
Vince walks on.
“No, don’t worry, I’ll just get my maid to bring out some jelly shots”.
Jelly shots were his answer to everything.
All of life’s pain.
Intimate moments with the maid were a close second.
Vince had once also believed in the healing properties of jelly shots.
Maybe that’s why he now wore tracksuit pants and a stained t-shirt, rather than a three-piece pinstripe suit.
They were also possibly the reason he never had the resources to have someone bring them to him.
He would have liked that.
Vince walks on.
“Oh yeah, I do yoga all the time”.
“No. Not yoga, yoghurt”.
“Oh yeah, I do that too”.
Yoghurt was a mass of bacteria.
Yoga was a mass of awkward positions.
Vince had little interest in either.
Neither did the girl who was admitting to a leisurely pursuit of both.
Vince walks on.
“I can’t remember if it’s Bon Jovi night or not”.
She loved Bon Jovi night.
She wished it were more than once a month.
Her boyfriend did not share her enthusiasm and his posture and facial expression made that abundantly clear.
Vince sympathised with both of them.
He too would like to experience Bon Jovi night, but no necessarily with her.
Vince entered the Milk Bar.
Next time he would drive.