Indecisive Victory

A woman's voice carried over the tumult in the bar, her ominous overture soaring in a wind of falsetto above the baritone of Chelsea's fandom, drinking to the success of the club, who had only just sealed their victory, and to their own health. Spiteful cursings from the lone German in the corner, rigidly upset with the second-rate Swiss team for not putting the match away, accompanied the clink of ice swirling around my Irish whiskey as I viewed the celebration (and dejection) impartially from in front of a mirror on the wall, splitting my consciousness along an existential plane, where I sat back to back with my indifference. The woman's voice carried through both realms, transcending this parallel barrier between both sides of myself, both sides of the match's outcome. Like the light that cascaded from dusty bar lamps over dark wood and golden tap handles, her melody penetrated the fabric of the moment in time, where I both existed and ceased to exist, both literally and figuratively, in either realm, respectively.