“How long has it been since we’ve been on a date?” Deborah asks, taking a break from her knitting.
“Six years,” Robert quickly answers, never taking his eyes off the television and remaining silent for the rest of the evening.
Rhythm
She taps the pen rhythmically on the table, as she stares down at the notebook, the blank paper staring back up. She starts to slide the pen along the wire spine in between taps, increasing the rhythm as she goes. Taps her foot against an imaginary bass drum. Slaps her free hand against her leg for some fills. Fashions her lips into the bass guitar.
Stops.
A smile creases her lips, as the ink hits the page.
Tricycle
Simon sits on a rock in his new front yard, wondering what life will be like without dad around…well, not in the house, at least. Mom takes some stuff out of the car and puts it in the garage, to take it into the house later.
A man walks by with a little girl on a tricycle in tow. He turns up the driveway to talk to Mom, while the girl waits, not too far from Simon.
“I’m Simon,” he says, trying to look cool, nonchalant, even though he doesn’t even know the meaning of the word.
“I’m Tabitha,” she returns, pretending to look away but watching him from the corner of her eyes.
“Do you mind if I ride your tricycle?” Simon asks. “I won’t break it.”
Tabitha turns and looks at him from head to toe.
“I’m sorry,” she says with a sympathetic smile. “But you’re just not my type.”
Nothingness
He swirls the glass of red around, watching the flame from his candle flicker through the glass and liquid. It is the only light coming from his apartment. The moon is bright outside providing a little extra light, but one would be hard-pressed to see the man sitting on his couch if they were to peer in through a window. Although, the sounds of the opera would give clues to the apartment not being vacant.
His friends (what friends?) are all out on this Saturday night, drinking and dancing, doing all those things he finds deplorable. They offered him an evening of fun, but he kindly declined, making up some lame excuse about needing to be up early the next morning and being too tired. It was all a lie, of course, but they didn’t need to know that. He always figured it was easier to be civil than truthful.
It’s all a lie, he thinks to himself. Everything.
He has no interest in being fake anymore, pretending to like people, pretending that he agrees with another person’s belief system, pretending that some idiot just said something revolutionary, when it was nothing more than moronic babble. What is the point? What is the purpose? Why try to fool yourself into feeling good about who you are when, deep down, you know the truth?
The dark. Something seems so right about the dark. Nothing but a small votive flickering slightly in the gentle breeze, which is floating in from the autumn night, and that slice of moonlight. Nothing but a comforting sip of red to put the mind at ease. Nothing but a soprano in Italian, reaching notes his ears can barely pick up. Nothing but a comfortable couch to sink into. Nothing but becoming a part of the night.
Sighing silently, he takes a sip of the red wine, allows a gentle smile to crease his lips, closes his eyes, and sinks ever so far into nothingness.
