Hey everyone...this is a short story/extended conversation I wrote as one of my first real forays into non-fantasy/sci fi writing... It's sort of based on real life events, but is largely metaphorical. I'd appreciate any earnest comments you may have to the writing itself ooooor even the content. There are a few inside jokes as well as allusions. Anyways, enjoy.
Also, excuse any spelling errors, because I have to write things in richtext on my other computer and I have no way of spellchecking.

The limitless expanse stretches before him, a seclusion in its boundlessness as he stares forward, past the broken lamppost, past the burned out husk that used to be that italian deli, onto the horizon that has long since been cut out by the flounderings of overhead bridges and the icy teeth of skyscraper. He does not lament it, nor can he, as his footsteps hit the hollow metal of a sidewalk cover. The sound reminds him of distant churchbells, the kind he remembered hearing as a child. The bells always rang from far away, almost as if they had been rung only in the hopes that some lost soul would search them out, to find them in disuse atop a tower, waiting for a new passion to ring them once more. He had never been to church. It’s not that he hated god, or anything so trivial or hateful. God was just one of many quantities that were out of his jurisdiction, he made no attempt to understand or disprove them. Even at the end of the day, when the frost descends, cutting swiftly through his layered sweatshirts, he still clings onto some half-hearted hope that it will get warmer, that for a moment the stinging in his limbs would subside, and that nagging sleepiness would lift. The sidewalk seemed to ponder the question for him. Why was he so lonely? Why did he walk these streets in a vain attempt to force a chance happening? Did he really think that those sorts of movie-born fantasies came true? He knew full well that they did, he had seen them happen to a number of his friends, past loves, and others as he continued down the streets, their ghosts of memory caught in conversation or intimate whispers as his gangly and wretched form cleaved the air in front of him. Those he passed rarely met eyes with him, ignoring the blight he brought with him, or fearing the sorrow that poured from his eyes, soaking his shirt and staining the ground below with the regrets of their reflections. He absent-mindedly kicks at the browned ice on the drop where the sidewalk meets the street, caked and crusted over with days upon days of thaw and freeze. He laughs, mocking himself as he whispers, ‘how very appropriate.’ He would spit, but no manner of disdain or anger could chase the bile from his mouth. It was almost futile. He couldn’t mar the world outside, for it had already spurned him, and he wished, how he wished to be a part of it again. He fumes as he walks, shaking his fists and opening and closing his mouth in silent screams and shrieks. Even as the sun descends, he dare not break the silence of the coming night with his own pathetic voice. How undeserving was he, of such eldritch beauty as it lit every lamp like cracked teeth upon the sky, bending down their cancer-ridden sickly illumination to the filthy streets below. The darkness is at once frightening and comforting. After all, all sorts of things hid in darkness...even him. How odd it was that few people walked the streets, the cold chasing them indoors to their television and loving embraces. This put him more at ease, it was almost easier to be alone in the darkness than to share it with so many as easily frightened as he. Up ahead lay the familiar kiosk, that beacon of street-culture, the dispenser of literature for all those that wished to learn tragedy as it fell on other’s lives, only content when the loss was greater than what they experienced day to day. She worked there. There wasn’t anything especially interesting about her. She was pretty, but not overly so, not much of a talker, just one of the many automatons that shared the decaying husk of a metropolis. He approached as he always did, beginning the conversation as he always did.
“Hi.”
“Hi.”
“Could I get a copy of the classifieds?” Every time he felt like his voice trembled a little more.
“Still looking for the perfect somebody? Try the automotive.” The joke was both tedious and forced.
“Already did, it was a hit and run.” He practically winced, that was terrible. He looked up, she wasn’t smiling, she wasn’t even laughing at him. Her face was blank, as if the statement had come and passed like any other she had heard that day. “Well, have a good night.” He turned abruptly. She had been wearing glasses, she didn’t usually wear glasses, they kind of made her cute. He tipped his head to the side as he began to walk off, noisily opening the paper as he did so.
“Hey”
He turned more abruptly than he thought he should’ve, he was a bit embarrassed. “Yeah?”
“Hold on a minute.”
“O......k.....” He busily shuffled the paper to try and look as occupied as possible. After realizing that a minute probably meant several, he took a seat on a nearby stoop. She walked out of the kiosk, wrapped in an old worn-out coat, her head snapping from side to side. She was talking to herself.
“Where did he...”
“I’m right here.” He waived weakly from his position on the stone steps. The wetness had already slightly dampened the back of them.
“Come on, let’s go get a cup of coffee.” She smiled brightly, warm in its earnest innocence.
“I don’t drink caffeine, it makes me sick.” He watched her face as her head snapped back in astonishment. No matter how many times he had seen the reaction, he never got tired of how shocking it seemed for people to meet someone who doesn’t use caffeine.
“Well I’ll get you a decaf tea instead. IS THAT OK YOUR MAJESTY!?!!?” She made a friendly mocking face as she put on an imaginary crown.
“Yeah. That’ll be fine.” His tone was without humor.
“Dude, I was joking, jesus christ.”
“I know.”
They walked for some time, several blocks of blank concrete and brick, before she decided to break the awkward silence of walking with a stranger. She patted him on the shoulder lightly, perhaps too intimately, he drew back immediately.
“I never told you my name.”
“You’re right.”
“Aren’t you curious?”
He shrugged. “I guess.”
“Well it’s Mandy. Jesus, you’re making this awfully hard.”
“Making what hard?” He turned to face her as they walked.
“Knowing you, geez. How are we supposed to make friends if you don’t even want to know my name?”
“I just figured you wanted some company. I’m...I’m Keith.”
“Nice to meet you Keith.” There was that smile again.
“Nice to meet you Mandy.” He turned reflexively back to the ground, watching his feet careen lazily back and forth between the cracks and lines of the sidewalk. He’d never grown out of not stepping on them. The rest of the walk was spent in the same practiced awkwardness he had cultivated over many months of walking these streets, an aura that served to chase off most people very quickly, or at the very least make them uncomfortable. It was like walking across glass with galoshes, never enough to hurt, but enough to make you scared and more than a little wary of the time spent ahead. Luckily for Mandy, they reached the coffeeshop fairly quickly.
“After you.” She opened the door and held it for a moment. He stood for a moment, as if he was pondering the inevitability of the lights turning off within, the last weary breath of the late-night workers as they returned to their one-room apartments to sleep and drink themselves stupid. Either that or the metal door cleaving through his tensed shoulder muscles, spewing blood all over the streetcorner, covering Mandy and that worn-jacket, those little glasses, murdering her smile with the immediacy of atrocity.
“Thank you.”
The place was filled with the usual population of such gathering spots. There were the pretentious art kids, comfortable in their untouchable rhetoric and equally obscure interests. Deliberate alienation. He chuckled, how funny it was how they aped the real thing, yet so unwilling to truly feel it. There was the late-night music crowd, hip-hop heads, rockers, even the odd raver-throwback, still paranoid as they passed out pills under the table. He noticed that Mandy waved to a few. He secretly hoped they would choke as he passed, but their conversations carried onwards, drifting from such heady topics as sex and the typical coffeehouse fare of politics. Marxist. Of course, what else could they be? College students probably. Still they were happy and animated, that kind of friendly camradery that he missed so much. He sat at a small table in the corner, one crowded with four chairs. He chose the seat which faced the street, much more comfortable staring at the transparent reflections than the people themselves. Mandy sat next to him, rather than across. It threw him.
“I can tell you’d get along with my friends reaaaaalll well.”
“Excuse me?”
“Dude, Keith, you’re practically scowling. If you don’t want to have a cup of coffee with me just say so. You’re free to go, I can always go sit with my friends.” She was a little peeved, but her tone stayed friendly.
“I’m sorry Mandy, I guess I’m just a little uncomfortable. This isn’t really ‘my kind’ of place.” He used that excuse for pretty much everything these days. Truth was, his skin was the only place he wasn’t comfortable with, too bad it followed him around so doggedly. But that in itself rang the cliche gong, and he knew that it wasn't the best description. Perhaps, more accurately, he wasn't comfortable in what he felt he had become, tiny changes that were inperceptable to those just casually watching him from their warmed booths or tables scratched and marred by the scribblings of intelligensia.
"I know your type. You're most comfortable in a situation surrounded by people who think exactly like you, worry about the same things you do, and react to the world in the same way. You want a community, and for some reason you don't have it. I thought you were a loner when I first saw you, but you're the opposite. You just can't get out of your shell." She nodded in affirmation to what she felt was a perfect psychological template of the young man sitting next to her.
"Yeah that sounds about right." He couldn't tell whether she had slyly insulted him, or was genuinely interested in the way he was feeling. Either way, she did it in such a friendly matter, that he didn't much mind either.
"Well I'll tell you right now Keith, I'm nothing like you." She waved for the waitress to come by, a hipster type, complete with the white faux snakeskin belt. The waitress took the order with the same disinterest she regarded to her boyfriend every night after returning home from work. Familiarity breeds contempt they always say, and how she felt it for these two late-night morons.
"I'll be back in a minute Mandy."
"She knows you?" He was continuously surprised at how much this situation felt like an ambush.
"Yeah, her name is Sandra. I used to date the guy she's with now. I don't know why she still doesn't like me, she's the one that got him."
"You bitter about it?"
"No, I don't have time to be bitter like that. Life's too short you know?"
"I've been under the impression that it takes far too long."
"Oooo how very deep." She snorted and smiled. She did seem to amuse herself easily. But he found himself looking at that smile again and again. He waited in silence, preferring to let the whole issue slip. She of course, wouldn't let it. "I"m just messing with you, I guess I'll just stop, captain sensitive."
"That's corporal to you, private." She actually laughed this time. Hoo-ray.
"Aha, so there is a personality under there!" Mandy thanked Sandra as she put down the cups. He realized that he hated tea. It's not like it was something easily forgotten, it tasted like dishwater, but for some reason, the thought had not crossed his mind until the moment Mandy took her first sip of coffee.
"You waiting for an invitation there boss?" She called him boss. He called people boss. This was noted.
"Well I figure it should be here in one to two business days."
"So Keith, what do you do for a living?" She leaned in slightly closer, she smelled like cloves. Very artsy indeed.
"Sob in the bathtub with a gun in my mouth." He shrugged his shoulders as he said it. He was only half joking.
"Who doesnt?" It didn't phase her, how odd. "No really, what do you do."
"I'd like to pretend I'm a writer, but I'm not so good at it."
"Yeah that's startlingly unimpressive, I was hoping you'd say Chippendale's dancer, or stockbroker." She took a big sip of her coffee and stared, trying hard not to laugh at the face he made when she said 'stockbroker.' He stared down at the hoodies he was wearing, giant holes worn in each sleeve, smelling of what he could only guess to be stale sweat and maybe a little blood.
"I don't really look the part of stockbroker."
"Well I never said you had to be a good one." This time he laughed. He wanted so desperately for her to like him. He wasn't sure why. So he forced the laugh. It came out sincerely enough. "So what kind of stuff do you write?" He dreaded the question. I mean, he couldn't avoid it, it always came up. He knew this would be the end of the conversation.
"Well Mandy..." He always started this the same way, it was always better to ease the blow. "I'm a bit of a nerd. Sooo, I write fantasy, epic and horror mostly."
"Oh so like lord of the rings and stuff." She seemed marginally interested, or at least pretended to be.
"Yes." He smiled condescendingly.
"Well if you get the chance, I'd like to read some of it." She took another sip of coffee. What an empty statement. Everyone says that. Why? No one really wanted to read it. No one was interested in that garbage except for the nerds who write it. That elusive 'community.'
"Sure."
"Besides working at the paper-shack, I'm studying psychology." She was very sure of herself. Usually this would make him angry. But then again, she had been disarmingly nice, not to mention increasingly attractive.
"So I'm tonight's experiment am I?"
"In so many words, yes." She made a very serious face which quickly collapsed into an absurd grimace. He imagined pounding six inch nails through her skull as she screamed and convulsed on the table.
"How many years do you have left?"
"Just one more in school, then a few slaving away in some lab somewhere."
"Do you believe in the viability of drugs being able to cure people?" The question plunged out of his mouth. He was prepared to judge the entirety of Mandy's being based upon her response.
"No, but I do think that some people genuinely need them. My brother's schizo, and without them he'd be nonfunctional." This time it was his turn to take a sip. The tea was already growing cold. He fought the gag reflex as it went down.
"Sorry, I didn't mean to offend you."
"Of course, and he's doing great, got a nice job working in a jc penny, men's wear I believe."
"Yeah I could do with a little bit of that myself."
"Men's wear?"
"No, a job."
"You don't have one?"
"I do, but it isn't much. It's all I can get though. I'm not so good with dealing with the public, or anyone really...getting out of my room is often an issue."
"You didn't seem to have too much trouble coming to get a cup of coffee with me." She adjusted herself in the chair, leaning back. Her jacket opened, revealing a le tigre t-shirt, bright orange. "You're not going to murder me are you?" The question came out of nowhere.
"I...I don't think so." He could see her corpse dragging behind his car, leaving long red streaks on the road.
"You don't sound so sure."
"Well you would be my first, I guess I'd be a little nervous."
"Now that's funny." She winked.
"Oh. Hilarious."
"Where do you live?"
"Kinda far from here."
"By yourself?"
"Yeah." He lied. He was embarassed.
"Me too." An audible awkwardness followed. "So why are you down here then?"
"I haven't been down to the city in a long time. I used to come down all the time for shows...not so much anymore."
"What kind of shows?"
"Mostly chippendales dancers." He winked noticably, almost as far as could be described cheesily.
"Yeah I take those in too."
"I bet you do." He winced. You don't say those sorts of things to strangers, or in this case, extremely new acquaintances.
"Hah. Very hah." She rolled her eyes, glancing over to the table where her friends were sitting. They were getting ready to leave.
"Hey if you want to chill with your buds, that's cool. Thanks for the tea." He made a motion as if he was going to get up.
"No no no, sit down. We're not done talking buster, not by a long shot." He shrugged.
"Whatever you say boss."
"Why did you never say hi to me? I mean, you don't come around very often, but often enough. I"m nice aren't I?"
"I don't usually make it a habit to say hi to people I don't know." He frowned a little, he found himself actually regreting that he didn't. He felt stupid for feeling like that. "I just figured you deal with enough people everyday, why deal with another one." He thought for a second. "Wait, I say hi to you like every time!"
"You say it, but you don't mean it."
"What do you mean 'I don't mean it?' It's 'hi,' how can a person not mean it?"
"You don't, I can see it in your eyes. It's an empty hi, like saying hi to the trashman."
"Well no offense Mandy, but up until now, you were the girl behind the desk at the news kiosk."
"But don't you know now, that I'm more than that? I'm a person?" Her voice sounded a little anxious. He was extremely uncomfortable. He decided to defuse the situation with an old tactic he often used with girls.
"My ex-girlfriend used to say things like that." Good, that should shut her up. He felt terrible. Why did he want to hurt her. She on the other hand, seemed unphased.
"Your ex-girlfriend sounds like a smart girl."
"Well she's with someone else, that should be reason enough for you."
"What did she say to you, if you don't mind me asking?"
"She has a great deal of care and love for the people around her. She sees everyone as a potential friend, a person worthy of being loved. She gave everyone a chance, even people she had never met before."
"And you have to prove to yourself that they're worth it. You must be a very lonely guy Keith."
"You could say that." She must be a psych major, she had clearly succeeded in making him feel like an idiot. He wanted to strangle her with a shoelace then be gunned down by a passing streetgang.
"You get along with her?" She pulled her chair closer, it was obvious she had struck a nerve.
"Not really. I miss her though, like you wouldn't believe. I'm just not the right guy for her I guess."
"Well, welcome to the world. We've all got those we miss, that we wish we could have fit better with. Mine's name was James."
"My best friend in the world when I was little was named James."
"James was the sweetest guy in the world. Almost too sweet. But for all his sweetness he never let me take any charge in the relationship, he'd always say 'I'll take care of it honey.' It drove me crazy, even though I loved him." He took a sip of his tea. It was cold. He put it down in disgust.
"I was the opposite, I always forced her to make the decisions. I'm totally spineless in any situation when I'm not actively trying to hurt someone's feelings."
"Wow. That's a pretty big thing to admit." She looked so contemplative. He wanted to kiss her. Just once, just lightly. He wanted to feel the warmth in her lips.
"I've come to terms with it I think."
"I suppose you'd have to."
"Yeah."
"Well how about this." She grabbed her cup histrionically. "I propose a toast." She motioned to him. "Go on, pick up your chalice, I can't toast with myself." He picked up the cold tea. He could smell it and it made his eyes water. "To fucking up, remembering it, and doing nothing to change." He laughed.
"To fucking up." They clacked the soggy processed paper cups together. He took a deep gulp. It tasted awful. He didn't care. He wanted to swallow it down, to feel its iciness pass through his throat and down to his stomach. There it would solidify into thousands of tiny shards, shredding his insides, causing him to shriek out of the delerious pain.
"I'm tired." Admittedly, she looked exhausted.
"Me too...of life." He never got tired of that joke.
"Yeah you must be." She shifted in her seat again, crossing her legs as she did so, the dark jeans rubbing slightly. His desire was ungodly for just a moment. It passed quickly enough. She was after all, a perfect stranger. That was one of his favorite shows, 'perfect strangers.' That Balki sure was hilarious.
"Calling it a night I suppose?" He knew she could sense the sadness in his voice. He wanted her company more than he let on.
"Not yet I don't think."
"Well I don't want to keep you."
"Keith, I like talking to you."
"Oh. My mistake, I'm sorry." He took on a frustrated tone; he didn't want to screw this up. "I know I come off as being extremely emo, I don't mean to. I really am a pretty cheery guy when I want to be, it's just late."
"I know, I'm not usually this friendly." She smiled again. It was an awkward smile, she didn't like to show her teeth. The corners of her mouth lifted only slightly, but it was enough to communicate her happiness and mirth at her observation. "You want to split an eclair?"
"Sure, but I have to watch my girlish figure."
"Yeah I can see that, fatty." This time Mandy walked up to the counter. Sandra got her an eclair with practiced grace. For a moment Sandra looked directly at him. It was disconcerting. She seemed angry that he was sitting there, that he had the audacity to come into 'her' coffeeshop and hang out. In truth, it had the desired effect.
"I think that Sandra girl doesn't like me for some reason."
"Oh she doesn't like anyone who isn't the coffeeshop artist type."
"Writer doesn't swing?"
"I guess not." She tore the eclair in half. "Here."
"Oh, I was hoping we were going to do some kind of lady in the tramp thing where we took bites off either end." He was entirely serious. In fact that's what he was hoping for.
"Do I...do I have to?" She mimed stripteasing with the edge of her jacket in reference to that moment on family guy. He laughed unabashedly and loudly. His eyes never left her shoulder though, covered in bright orange, delicate and sharp.
"Oooooh shit. Well that's it Mandy, it's official."
"What's official?"
"You're cool. I like you." Judgement complete.
"Wow I never thought forced stripping could bring so much to my life."
"Then you have quite a bit to learn." Mandy was pleased, she was clearly breaking him out of his shell. It had taken long enough. He took a bite out of his eclair, savoring the sweetness on his face. She squeezed hers until the custard came spilling out into her mouth. His eyes squinted and he stifled laughter. "What the fuck!?!?"
"That's how I eat them, got a problem with that?" She gave him a look of authority.
"Actually....I DO!" He slammed his fist down on the table much louder than he expected. The few people still in the coffeeshop looked over, their eyes immediately relegating him to philistine status.
"Well tough luck fuckface." She finished her half in two clean bites.
"I won't have you calling me by my surname in public." He gazed into her eyes for an awkwardly long time before he realized he was staring.
"What?"
"Nothing."
"You sure there boss?"
"Yeah I'm sure."
"Go on fatty. Don't worry I'll help you throw it up in the bathroom after you're done." She pointed to the remnants of the eclair sitting in front of him.
"Alright, but only if you help." He took a bite and handed her the last tiny chunk. She took it and popped it into her mouth, her lips making a perfect o. He didn't know why that was so alluring.
"You want to go for a walk?" She stood up. She wasn't really asking.
"Ok." It was the last thing he wanted to do. It was freezing outside, he was going to be miserable. And the cold made him irritable. He desperately wanted to convince Mandy that he could be fun and friendly, she was so nice.
"Don't worry, I won't take you far. Don't you own a coat or anything?"
"Yeah, I have a big one."
"But you're not wearing it."
"Nope."
"Do you like being unhappy?" She started to walk out, as if uncaring of whether he was following. He caught up quickly.
"Nope, I just don't take big steps to not be." He shrugged. That was honest enough. They let the glass door of the coffeeshop close loudly behind them, stepping out into that bile-yellow light of the streets. He watched the putrid fog rise up out of the manholes. It was one of his favorite sights in the city at night, like the sewers were alive. She walked close to him, their arms occasionally bumping. He wasn't sure if she was doing it intentionally, so he continued on as if nothing were happening. They walked a few blocks. He didn't know the neighborhood that well, and began to get a little nervous. He didn't like to be in spaces that he didn't feel safe in. He looked over at her often, but she kept her gaze forwards, as if with some kind of goal in mind. Her hair was tucked under a woolen-knit cap, though bits would work themselves out from under it from time to time. Despite the aching cold, there was a sense of quiet adventure here that he enjoyed. She stopped in front of a huge delapidated building, her arms outstretched.
"Well here we are."
"Um, where's here?"
"This is my apartment building."
"Oh. Could you give me directions to get back to the lightrail? I'm not exactly sure how to get back."
"You don't want to come in and warm up for a minute or two?"
"Well I should probably get back..."
"To what, your empty place? Come on, I won't bite." The look on her face told him she most definitely would. Still, getting warm for a bit was innocent enough, and he could get back to the light-rail without directions if he had to, it'd just take a little longer.
"Alright." They walked quietly up the steps, the sound of rubber on stone echoing just slightly in the still night air. There was no doorman, in fact the whole place seemed empty. He smiled, he was liking this more and more already. Visions of being eviscerated and hanging from a meathook in one of the stairwells flitted through his mind. He could hear the dripping, smell the iron in the air. It was intoxicating. Almost as intoxicating as Mandy's walk as she ascended the cold concrete steps, her slender hand running along the iron rail. He followed her wordlessly, the tension in the air growing with every floor they climbed. She stopped in front of a door labeled 813.
"Here we are, abode of the damned." She grinned wickedly as she opened the door. He was pleasantly surprised, it was very clean, if not a little surprised, unfortunately, it was almost as cold within the apartment as it was outside. "Hold on, let me turn on the space heaters, it's freezing in here." He sat down on a futon in what he assumed to be the living room. "Yeah why don't you just get in my bed why don't ya?"
"Umm..." He stood up awkwardly.
"Dude, it's cool, I use it for a couch and a bed. Chill Keith, chill."
"It's uhh, a nice place."
"Keith, it's a shithole."
"No it's not." He didn't know when to shut up.
"Oh yeah the whole space heater thing really gives it a sense of living in the rustic wilderness. I just looooove living here."
"I didn't mean any offense, I was just trying to be nice."
"Just be yourself. Say what you feel, not what you think is going to keep me from jumping down your throat." She began to pour some foul smelling brown liquid into two identical glasses.
"But I barely know you"
"All the more reason you should be honest." She sat next to him on the couch, her warmth was irresistable. She put one of the cups in front of him on the table, taking hers and pulling her feet up on the fouton to face him, drawing her knees up to her chest.
"Not in my experience." He pointed at the glass. "What's that?"
"It's rum."
"I don't drink."
"You...don't drink." She sighed heavily. "Guess I'll drink both then." She sounded a little crestfallen.
"Sorry, I just don't believe in poisoning my body."
"Just your mind with negativity?" Now she was just being mean.
"Touche. I didn't mean it as a slight though. You know that, right? I don't push my politics on other people, I just don't do it myself."
"How very generous of you." Her tone was curt. She took a gulp of rum. He threw up his hands in half-hearted exasperation.
"I didnt'..." He sighed loudly.
"Relax Keith, I do this thing, my friends call it joking. I'm sure you've heard of it." He was put at ease again. He didn't like the effortlessness she put into putting him at ease. The whole situation keened of siren songs.
"Well my friends aren't too keen on this 'joking' of yours." He punctuated his remark with a mimed quotation in the air.
"If they're imaginary, their opinions don't count." She put down her rum. "Kiss me."
"What?"
"I said kiss me, you sissy." She turned and put her feet on the floor, shifting her body closer to his.
"Mandy, I don't know I met you just a few hours ago." He could feel the desire pulling at his stomach.
"Either you kiss me, right now. Or I kiss you. This can be your choice or not. Either way, I'm getting a kiss." He wanted to, so terrifically badly. So he leaned in, and pressed his lips to hers. They weren't spectacular, not velvety as he had imagined, but slightly chapped, scarred and torn by the cold. But they were sweet, inviting and warm. They stayed locked for a moment. They pulled away slowly, each opening their eyes. "That's more like it." She smiled deeply, her breathing just slightly quickened. He suddenly felt very queasy.
"I have to go to the bathroom. I'll be right back."
"Don't go far." Her voice was a sultry purr. He was ravenous with hunger. He stumbled to the bathroom as if in a stupor, taking great care to close the door quietly. He breathed slowly, trying to calm his heart as it threatened to drive itself right out of his chest. His jaw began to quiver, and he held himself upright by holding onto the shower rail. Tears flowed unashamedly down his cheeks, his face pulled into a horrific grimace of sadness and worry. He clenched his fist, digging his fingernails into his hand, drawing a tiny trickle of blood as he did so. He didn't even know what was happening. He wanted to be with Mandy, he wanted to chase off the burning sorrow and sickness that sank deep in his stomach, rotting there for the past few weeks. But he couldn't. Something was wrong. Something was very wrong. He thought of her, sitting on the fouton, so radiant in her imperfection. He choked back a sob, falling to his knees and crawling to the toilet. He thought of his heartbreak. He thought of his lonliness. And it came shuddering forth. In cascade after cascade he retched, green and pungent as it plunged from his open mouth into the water below, mixing in cloudy irregularity. The sound made him angry. He hated it. Not just the feeling, but where it came from. Inbetween each outpouring, he'd whisper 'fuck you' and spit into the growing mire. There were faces in it, bodies of old loves swimming lovingly and without care in the filth. He could see their smiles. See that they were still happy. He tried to drown them, vomiting until he felt as though his insides would cave in upon him. He whispered one last time before he pulled the chain.
"Fuck you." He could hear her outside the door. There was concern in her voice.
"Keith are you ok?"
"No, I think there was something in the tea. I'm sick."
"Can I come in?"
"I'd prefer if you didn't, it's kinda gross. Don't worry, I didn't get it on anything."
"That's ok I just want to make sure you're cool."
"I'm alright." He stood slowly. He felt weak. He didn't want to leave, he just wanted to lay down. But he had to go. He knew it. This would not be salvaged. He opened the door. She looked positively gorgeous.
"Sit down, I'll get you some water."
"No thanks, I think I better go."
"But Keith, you look pale, just stay for a little, please?"
"I'm sorry Mandy. I'll catch you later." He put on his sweatshirts.
"Can I at least give you a call?"
"No. I'll come find you. Either at the newspaper place or here...ok?" He was lying. She knew it. But she didn't protest.
"Sure....sure..."
"Goodnight."
"Goodnight." The door clicked loudly behind her, and he waited in the threshold for just a moment. He heard her walk back to the fouton and turn on the tv. She sighed loudly and sniffed. He felt even worse. So he ran. He ran full speed down the hallway, down the flights of stairs, out into the street. He ran past the coffeeshop, past the smoking manholes, around a corner. He hadn't noticed the bottle. It got caught under his foot, he slipped. He feel to the pavement, hard, scraping his hands badly and biting his cheek when he hit. He spat out blood, it coagulated on the browned caked snow on the curb, turning a ruddy color. The tears fell again, and he drew himself up against the cold, lying in a heap on the concrete.

It's not what I expected. It's startling, insanely awkward (as intended) and very effective. It's almost physically painful to read. I loved it.

Even if I hadn't seen your name attached with this, I think I would have known you had written it. It felt pretty honest, and the character, even if he wasn't named "Keith" again, seemed to fit you very closely. I enjoyed the dialogue between him and Mandy the most. And I definitely think this shows that you can write in more than just a fantasy/scifi genre.

....I'm sorry if this sounds like something an 8th grade English teacher would write on a short story. In short, I thought it rung true. Nice work.

-Dave

I like the way you're stuck in some kind of pattern.. ending up back at the mercy of the brown caked ice/snow pile even after a forray into the living world. Unless that wasn't intended in the story...

I LOL'ed at the perfect stranger thought.. haha... i can imagine myself having that same random thought in my head.. And GG on the fam guy reference...


I could both imagine in my head this whole scene being played out by you--quite realistically.... and also simultaneously be vividly reminded of the visceral feeling of lonliness and emptiness that I have felt at times in my life.. though maybe not for the same reasons or to the same tune. Your story is almost TOO honest .. in some ways evoking an objective sympathy and in other ways subjective empathy.

When I first clicked this link and saw how long your story was, I was going to go eat something and read it later. I hate reading.. but I scrolled a little bit and saw the line: "Hi." And I was hooked. Honestly, I skipped the first paragraph and started with the dialog--a common tactic of mine to get interested in an article or whatever. Once I was done, I came back and read the first paragraph.

I also liked when you described the coffee shop as not your 'kind of place' and then reflected at how cliche of an excuse that was... how many times have I heard that I can't count. Actually, that part reminded me of my exboyfriend.. and then when you went on with Mandy describing how maybe it wasn't 'keith' being uncomfortable with himself, but rather only comfortable with a certain type of people just like him... it was as if you were transcribing thoughts I'd had about my ex.. not sure how true it is or what kind of effect that has on people.. or why some people come across that way...
But anyway, I've got to jump off.
I really liked your story Keith, keep writing.

ps how true is it

ps i forgot to mention: I love sweat. And that story was awesomely sweaty. I soaked through 3 tshirts and a crotchless wetsuit while reading this.

that was thoroughly FELT through body and mind.
wretchedly beautiful.
(painful)
(yet perfect)

In response to Erin's question...

Pretty much all of this is real except for the young lady's name... This stemmed from a real conversation I had with someone that ended in a real awkward situation. I did not on the other hand vomit, nor did I kiss her. Instead, that's basically what happened in my mind. I've realized that I'm becoming incapable of connecting with people, and meeting new ones makes me want to vomit.

As for the real life bit... dude, I think most people would have been sickeningly nerve-wracked and very uneasy about some girl out of the blue swooping down, taking you for coffee, and then asking you in. I'm sure I've seen too many movies, but I go with the axe-murderer theory as default. Does she do this every night? Does it really mean anything to her? I clearly wasn't in your shoes for the real event, but going from the story, all you really knew was that she almost certainly had either sex or axe-murderin' on her mind. The best case scenario would have been that she was hoping to fuck a personal connection into place. The worst has to do with the clap, which though hysterical when someone else has it, probably wouldn't have been too cool. I wouldn't have even gone inside.

Of course I might not have sat there day dreaming about death, gore, and mayhem either, but each to their own.

Allan: considering keith's disposition, did you happen to think that possibly he was hoping for the axe-murderer bit?