#gunplay.

The Pony Express *** (1925, Betty Compson, Ricardo Cortez, Ernest Torrence, Al Hart, Wallace Beery, George Bancroft) – Classic Movie Review 10,153

Producer-director James Cruze’s famous 1925 silent Western film The Pony Express was intended as a follow-up to his 1923 big hit, The Covered Wagon, but didn’t quite hit the target, either artistically or at the box office.

Ricardo Cortez stars as Pony Express rider Jack Weston who tries to put a spoke in the wheel when traitorous California Senator Glen (Al Hart) plots to take over parts of…

smoke smoke smoke and more smoke. enough smoke to where the question takes a while to settle, not enough to where she can’t hear it but it doesn’t piece together as quickly. she’s grateful for that. 

he says it when he should say that. or at least minhee thinks so. he says it and he should mean that because it is everything, it is all of it, it is him prying and opening. she closes back, hands gripping the sheets. she’s paused in the moment, not because of the pain but because of a breath. they both needed it really. she needed to breathe in something else and he, he just needed to breathe. she wonders if he’s ever looked this weak. thinks she probably needs another smoke.

‘does what hurt?’

she does reach for another smoke now, doesn’t feel an ache, a burn but not an ache and she decides one more drag into her lungs and she won’t feel anything. it’s a promise minhee looks forward to, one that has her smiling around the joint when he lights it. there’s a frown though she thinks she’s really too sober to be this aware, of features, thoughts. too too aware. too connected.

“all of it?”

she glances down, his questioning peering up at her from the bottom of her joint. she can’t even scowl, can’t bring herself to really. she tightens, her chest around her heart, her hands in the sheets and her resolve to wipe the look off his face. the questions too. the questions and the burn. all of it.

the noise she gets is all she needs to wipe it all away. and she has to. minhee can only pretend to be numb and when she is numb she can only be it for a period of time. it all wears and her body wears thin. some day it will wear out but right now she uses it to wear him out and snatch the questions from his head. 

because of course it hurts. 

of course it fucking hurts.

he doesn’t hope for anything when he asks. he’s always trying to pick apart her mind like a treasure chest. like he’s entitled and like he’s the only one allowed to see what’s underneath. minhee satisfies to a certain extent. she satisfies enough for a thought, enough to plant ownership and slide in. she satisfies to win and she’s not ashamed in the least.she’s not submissive she’s sneaky. smooth.

right now? right now minhee’s a little tipsy. right now she tastes a bitter burn but she doesn’t taste an answer. she doesn’t fashion a plan for his words and instead she slips into the comfort of the drink and the silence of seoul nights.

she doesn’t have an answer because she doesn’t have any wishes. she wanted 2017 to be raw and that’s all. she didn’t want too much sugar and not enough salt. she didn’t want too much salt and not enough sugar. she didn’t want a balance either. she didn’t know what she wanted and maybe that was a problem. maybe stringing through life without knowing and starting the year without knowing was the problem. 

she started 2017 with a drink in her hand and on the edge of a balcony, hands around her torso and cologne breathed into her skin. nothing’s changed.

it’s not comfort exactly. or maybe she tells herself that because it makes it easier to breathe it all in.

maybe it’s the cloud she’s welcoming to her body that makes passing up on an answer so much more tempting. maybe it’s because she’s so used to having an answer that not having one makes it feel like this isn’t her comfort. it feels like she’s changing and she has some untapped resolution in her heart that he’s drawing out.

“I-----”

“Don’t have any?” It’s a question, it’s an assumption. it shouldn’t bother her. he picks and picks but never strikes gold. he picks and picks and comes up empty-handed. she frowns around her drink, feeling the bitter more than the buzz. feeling bare. feeling that maybe the familiarity is too much, that’ maybe he’s too close and he’s too used to being close. feeling open, chilled and permeable. that could just be her pores responding to the cold. she tries not to stiffen and settles for finishing the rest of the drink before the words can slip out and her body slips back against his.

“Yeah.”