Waterdrops

The faucet continued to leak, despite his best efforts to the contrary.  He had tightened both knobs as much as he could to no effect. He had under tightened them, to the moment before they would start producing water. That didn’t help either.  Instead the only sound in the bathroom was the steady drip drip drip as the faucet contributed its percussive commentary in the otherwise silent bathroom.

He watched the drip from between his knees, the only part of him other than his face that broke the surface of the tub.  Under the water, the sound of the faucet was all-encompassing, the heartbeat of the water, a pounding rhythm that served as the counterpoint to his own inaction.  For every drip, he’d take a breath, until the faucet seemed to be dictating the rhythms of his life more than his own heartbeat. 

At first he was so fixated on this constant reality, narrowed to a single sound and motion, that he couldn’t begin to process anything else.  But over time, as the sound grew more insistent, he heard the knocking that came from outside, the alien sounds from the great beyond, a sharp erratic rat-a-tat of someone insistently knocking on the bathroom door.

He rose above the water slightly, ears exposed to the air, cold and bereft of the womb-like comfort of the bath.  And indeed, here in the open space, the door sounded loud and shrill.  He longed to sink back into the water, but knew that he couldn’t fully retreat.  No, the invasion would continue until he finally relented.  Better to face it. 

“What do you want?”

“You’ve been in there forever.  I need to use the bathroom.”

“Then use the bathroom,” he said.  “I don’t care.”

The door opened and with it came a blast of cold air from the outside.  He instinctively sank into the warm, inviting water.  “Shut the door,” he snapped.  She shut the door behind her. 

“How can you stay in there so long?  Doesn’t your water get cold?” 

He didn’t answer her.  She was questioning him just to nag, not out of any sense of genuine curiosity. He had done this enough that she was well familiar with his ritual of slowly draining off the water and refilling it with fresh, hot water when needed. 

He heard her move over to the toilet and sit down.  He didn’t bother opening his eyes.  There was nothing new to see here.  He did keep his head above water enough to clearly hear her, should she speak.  He felt that was enough consideration. 

“How long are you going to be in there?”

“No idea,” he said softly, a monotone murmur as he tried to focus on the drip of the faucet.  Hard when she was speaking, when he could feel her pointedly looking at him.  He wasn’t ashamed of his nakedness, that would be silly at this point, but the focused attention disrupted the calm watery dissolution of self he was seeking.  “As long as it takes.”

“As long as it takes for what?” 

He couldn’t begin to put what he was seeking into words.  So for a long while, he didn’t answer her.  She didn’t seem too interested in hearing an answer anyway.  But finally he spoke up, raising a hand to gesture to the faucet. 

“The faucet leaks.”

“Well, you should probably fix it,” she said. 

“That’s not what I meant,” he said, trying to compose his thoughts.  “I lie here and I can hear the dripping of the faucet, but each drop doesn’t really amount to anything.  I can’t tell that the faucet’s dripping.  It’s never enough to make the tub overflow.  Each drop is singular, eventful, but in the end it amounts to nothing.”

“What are you even talking about?"

“You asked what I was waiting for,” he said.  “That’s my answer.”

There was a pregnant pause.  Silence.  The sound of the faucet dripping began to fill his thoughts again, a small, insignificant plok plok here above the water.  He opened one eye, squinting against the light, looking over at her sitting on the toilet looking at him and through him, lost in her own thought. 

“Haven’t you gone yet?” he asked her. 

“I’m getting there,” she said.  “You make me nervous.”

“I know,” he said.

“I’m not talking about nervous about using the toilet in front of you, either.”

“I know,” he said again.

He could almost hear her mentally grasping for a response. He let her writhe on that answer, closing his eyes again.  He hesitated a moment, seeing if she’d say anything else, but then slid back down into the water again. 

The numbness, the warmth, as welcoming as his oldest friend.

The drops of water, loud again, the steady tick of the clock of the universe.

Demands #fridayflash

I demand that she take me to this place she told me about, the scene of the crime as it were. I know I shouldn’t even ask, but I can’t help myself. I need to see it, even if the truth of it will be worse than my imaginings and it drives me deeper into despair.

She seems resigned to my irrational choice, so she shows me without an argument. I drive in the pitch blackness of an oppressive summer night, moonless and moist. She stares out the window, saying nothing. There is no sound but the roar of an angry engine and the pounding of blood in my temples. I try not to let my emotions get the best of me. It’s very difficult.

The hotel we pull up to feels like some dark cave. The lights are dim, the bar adjacent to the hotel long since closed. The cars in the parking lot feel like apocalyptic husks, discarded years ago. I pull up, my headlights a violation of this blackest of spaces, and shut off the engine. My car, like the rest, joins the ranks of the dead machines, cast aside for what lies inside the looming building.

She leads me to a nondescript door on the face of the building. The key is already in her hand, sliding into the lock as she answers my unspoken question. “We … keep the room. There’s a standing rendezvous here …”

I try to keep myself under control. Try to sound reasonable when I speak. “How … how often is this … this …?” I can’t even find the words I want.

“Every week. Sometimes twice, if we feel up to it,” she admits freely, as though it doesn’t bother her. As though it’s the most natural thing in the world. My chest feels like its burning. She turns the knob and reaches in, expertly finding the light switch in the dark room.

I walk in once the light is on, ready to confront the space like it’s some sort of monster. Inside there are no dragons to slay, no boogey men but what I’ve brought with me. The room is small, bare and old and worn, with discolored wallpaper sloughing off the walls in patches and threadbare sheets on the one, large bed in the room.

There is no mistaking the purpose of a room like this.

She enters behind me and closes the door. I stand, looking at the room, trying not to gawk as my mind tries to picture her and some other being, inhabiting this room, regularly dropping from the living world to exist for a time in this tucked away place. It’s warm in here, but far drier than outside, and it feels like a whole other world with the orange glow of the light keeping the darkness at bay.

“I … I can’t picture this,” I admit to her. “You … here … it doesn’t make any sense.”

She shuts the light off in response, walking past me. There is nothing to see now, no light at all. I wait as my eyes begin to adjust to this new darkness. Slowly, very slowly, the world comes into focus. To her credit, it was the right response. In this light, all faint grey-blue tones like a heavy bruise on the world, this room seems mysterious and alien, uncaring walls and slashes of light from out in the parking lot coming in through the blinds. The bed falls across this pattern, slats of brighter color making prison bars on the mattress.

She’s laying on the bed, now. I hadn’t seen her move, but there she is, lying there staring up at the ceiling, hands tucked under her head like she hasn’t a care in the world. “This is what it’s like for me. It’s dark. It’s away. It’s comfortable. I don’t come here to look at the furniture.”

“Obviously,” I answer, my mouth dry. I thought the humidity outside was unbearable, but in here where it’s as dry and still as a tomb, it’s somehow worse. I feel as though all the water is being sucked from me, the room thirsty for what life I had to give it.

“Come lay down with me,” she says.

I stare at her, stare at the bed where she had … I couldn’t even finish the thought without my rational self dissolving in the emotional turmoil that I was keeping a tight lid on. “No, I can’t do that.” I move over to the other side of the bed, where there was a small space before the closet. I lie down on the floor, here where it was dark and somehow cooler for being on the ground. “I’ll lay down here.”

She moves over to the edge of the bed, her head a silhouette as she peered down at me. After a moment, she rolls off the edge carefully, landing at my side where she throws an arm over my chest protectively. I don’t have it in me to shrug her off.

“So what now? You know. I couldn’t stand you not knowing.”

I don’t know what to say at first. I look down at her and run one idle hand through her hair. “I don’t know what now. There’s not much I can do but deal with it. What other choice do I have?”

“You could have gotten mad,” she answers. “You could have yelled. Could have hit me. Threatened me. Left for good.”

I think it over as I watch her face turn up to mine, awaiting my answer. I shrug as best I can with her against me, shaking my head. “I don’t think I could do any of those things. I feel numb. It hurts, but it’s all … tied down.”

“Tied down?”

“Like a tourniquet,” I answer. “I’m keeping it all from bleeding out of me.”

“You don’t have to do that,” she says. “I can take it.”

“No, I could hurt you, if I did that. And I wouldn’t be able to forgive myself. Easier to stay in control.”

“I’m not afraid,” she says. She reaches up onto the bed, her hand fumbling around for something. When it returns, she has her purse in her hand. “I’ve got a little something that would have kept me safe.” In the faint light down here, I watch as she opens up the bag and pulls out her little something. It gleams faintly metallic, large and heavy, snub-nosed and dangerous.

“What the hell are you doing with that?”

“It’s more effective than pepper spray,” she says. “A girl’s gotta protect herself.”

“Is it loaded?”

“Of course it’s loaded,” she answers. “What good would it be otherwise? I might as well go out and buy a toy and paint it the right color and hope for the best, at that point.” She hesitats, and then looks up at me. “You wanna hold it?”

I pause, thinking for a second. Then I hold out my hand. “Sure.” She slides it into my palm and my fingers close around it. It’s heavier than I imagined, a huge chunk of metal cold and unfeeling. I lift my hand, feeling its heft, looking at the outline of it. “I’m surprised you can even lift this thing.”

“It took some practice,” she admits. “But I’m a pretty good shot.”

“Just how many things don’t I know about you, even after all this time?”

She doesn’t answer, just shrugs her shoulders and rests her head back on my chest. “I can’t give away everything at a moment’s notice,” she says. “I’m not like that. Maybe you’re okay with being transparent, but I can’t do it. You can’t straighten a maze, you just have to run it and try to get to the other side.”

I shakemy head. “I’m tired of playing games.”

“Well, then you’ll just have to make a choice. You either keep up this game, though I’d hardly call it that myself, or you get up and walk out this door and don’t come back. How does that suit your carefully controlled intellect, hm? Here you are, in the den of my dishonesty, and yet you still don’t know how you’re going to react. How pathetic can you be?”

I hug her close to me, her body small and soft against mine. The report that comes out of the monster she had handed me is muffled by her torso. She lets out a small gasp, her body stiffening beside me and then going loose. I feel a new heat, urgently warm and wet, spreading across my body.

She clings to me, not raising her head. “You really were upset, weren’t you?”

I hold her, rubbing her back, avoiding the gaping hole that I had blown through her. It wouldn’t be long, if the puddle I was lying in was any indication. I lean down, kissing her cheek and whispering in her ear. “More than you’ll ever know.”

“I’m … glad,” she says. “I didn’t think you cared as much as I did. I’m sorry that this is what it took for me to believe it.”

“It’s okay,” I answer. “Just relax. Everything is going to work out. You’ll see.”

“It already has,” she says. She raises her head, looking at me. “This is how it was supposed to be. You and me, together in the end. Everything else was just … baggage.”

I nod and she rests her head against me again. “Your heartbeat is steady,” she says. “I don’t think mine is, anymore. Will you miss me, when I’m gone?”

“Of course,” I answer without a thought. “I love you.”

“Mm, I know you do,” she says, her voice faint. “Thank you.” And then we are silent, our breathing the only sound in the room, the warm puddle I am lying in cooling. Eventually it turns thick and sticky, and soon there is only my breathing in the room. I am alone. Instantly, I miss her. Not that it matters for long.

Holding onto what was left of her, I lift the revolver. I had kept it free of any of the mess she had made. I lift it, staring into the cylinder. There are plenty of bullets left. I only need one. I rest it against my temple, where the muzzle feels cool and refreshing. I don’t have to keep a tight reign on my self-control anymore. I could just let go.

I let go.

Ode #fridayflash

It’s somewhere between the time when the drunks all carefully climb into their cars and play games with the police and the time when the responsible and the dedicated are out and about taking care of responsibilities while the rest of the world sleeps. The street lights flash in their monotonous pattern, the heart beat of a city in a sleep so deep it might as well be a coma.

The sky is fully dark. Not black, because it never gets fully black. The clouds that would obscure the moon are lit with the pale glow from the city, a faint bluish color that never actually feels like full dark. Nighttime is kept at bay by millions of tall metal sentries that line every path in the slumbering metropolis. In doesn’t help the feeling of loneliness on a night such as this. It certainly doesn’t encourage sleeping. It is only a counterpoint to the loneliness of the deserted roads, a nightlight left on for those returning home at such a forsaken hour.

The heavy, droning tone of an engine is the only thing that pierces the stillness of a night like tonight. The empty streets seem to welcome the sound, repeating it between concrete walls and darkened buildings. It takes on a magical quality, a constant crescendo, anticipation of a living soul in all this inanimate bleakness.

The car tears down the street, no longer hampered by such pedestrian concerns as stop lights and traffic. The keys of the city have been turned over, the roadways laid own with red carpet, for anyone who is willing to venture out into these small hours where life retreats.

The world seems to get even quieter as the vehicle approaches. The insects stop chirping, the wind is muted by the sound of the engine. The world is boiled down to a single noise, the mechanical pounding of pistons driven by endless explosions, destruction turned into motion, combustion turned into propulsion. It is only one energy being turned into another, over and over again, but the inert world around it is envious of the freedom.

The car tore through the night at speeds that it wouldn’t dare to pull during the day, when there were pedestrians and other cars and a thousand other dangers. Now it seemed indifferent to those risks. There was open road and it was going to defeat it handily. A line of motion, gleaming dark metal and tinted glass, the lights reflecting a staccato pattern, watery dots of light a fleeting impression of place before it was gone again.

Inside the car was a different story. There wasn’t lonliness here. Inside the bubble of glass and metal was another world, a world of life and thought and action. In here was a Driver. In here there was purpose.

As the car tore through the empty streets, the driver was nearly motionless. His eyes were alert on the road ahead, the mirrors showing him where he had gone, but he barely moved. Small adjustments of the wheel, the foot carefully measuring the gas, but otherwise the driver was still. That stillness was in direct contrast to the machine under his control. It thrummed a deep vibration from the engine, intricate machinery pushing the thousands of pounds of vehicle forward. The thrumming of the air inside as the music was cranked up, a beat that was like the pulse of some animal, straining and racing to go faster and faster. 

The driver was one with the machine, his mind was racing to notice a thousand things. At this speed, any mistake could quickly turn serious. Every adjustment to his course strained against the inertia of the car. When the roads turned, the car strained, the body shifting from the forces placed upon it. But that motion seemed to barely register for the driver, who took it all in stride with a flick of his wrists and a turn of the wheel. The car obeyed his command, machine not just subject to but bettering the abilities of man.

The windows shook with the sound inside of the car. It safely kept the night, and its endless sources of desolate solitude, at bay. In here was energy. In here was life and thought. In here was will turned into motion. The driver was charged with it. His thought could become action with nary an effort. Tools transformed into freedom.

The driver never took his eyes off the road, but he cracked a private smile at that thought. Freedom. That’s exactly what it was. Blood-racing, exhilarating, mind-liberating freedom. It was the freedom to exceed his natural self. And he did so gladly, refusing the call of sleep and the darkness as he pressed the pedal down further and raced faster through his own personal paved paradise.

The car left the quiet city behind, outracing the world and the sun and all those who awaited its return.

Nighttime Interruption #fridayflash

They all woke up to the rumbling of the ground shaking. Children instantly began crying, pets scurrying for cover and shivering in fear. The adults knew better. When the ground shook, they had to get outside, in case the structures fell in upon themselves. 

“Everyone, to the square!” A bellowing voice from outside, the town crier nimbly ran through the streets, shouting as loud as his ample lungs could carry. “Everyone, to the square!” 

The square was already filling as the houses emptied. They needed to do a head count, so as they filed into the meeting space village elders organized them into groups based on the streets they lived on and had them count themselves and look for neighbors. 

A cry went up from a far group of younger families. “Our child!” a mother cried out. “She was right there with us when we left, but she’s gone! You must find her!”

One of the elders, a tracker and law enforcer, ran over to the family and then took off the way the family had come, retracing their steps. He was alert for any signs of where she went, eyes sharp and ears open for even the smallest of clues.

Aside from that one missing child, everyone was accounted for. So the village leader ascended to the top of the small stage and addressed the crowd.  The leader was small and frail next to the younger elders, but when he spoke it was with the gravity of his station.

“Something terrible has happened,” he said, looking over the crowd. “No doubt you felt the earthshake. This was not an isolated incident. It was not like other earthshakes we have felt in the past.

The tracker ran down the empty streets. There was nothing here. Nothing moved but the grass. He called out the name of the missing child. There was no response. He ran faster down the street, trying to search everywhere at once.

“The earthshake was not natural. It was brought down from the heavens, and with it comes a strange fire and storms gathering on the horizon such as we have never seen.”  A murmur rose up from the crowd. The leader raised his thin arms to calm the village. “We are doing everything we can to find out what happened. We have already sent out scouts in the direction the strange fire came from, to ascertain the danger.”

The tracker stopped short when he heard a sound. There was something hiding nearby! He slowly approached, calling out the name of the child. There was a pause, the sound of breathing, and then movement. The child scurried out of the tall grass near a house. 

“Whatever happens,” the leader said, “I assure you that we will confront it together. We are, after all, a tribe. And a tribe works best when it works as a unit.” 

“Oh thank goodness,” the tracker said. The child looked up at him. “Your parents are waiting. Don’t worry, everything will be all right.”  The child blinked its large eyes, one hand reaching up and scratching at a patch of scales near her head. She obviously wasn’t of age to speak yet, but she followed after him dumbly, tail dragging in chagrin.

“Now, if you’d like to wait and see what is going on, I encourage you to wait for the scouts to return with me,” the leader said, clawed fingers extended. One of the elders lit a fire, as the moon was being obscured by a sudden wall of clouds that had crept over the horizon. In the firelight, the leader’s feathered arms glowed resplendent.  “I’m sure soon we will have our facts straight, and this will all be behind us.”

The crowd waited. The tracker returned with the child. The parents nuzzled they’re returning child. They were happy again. The tracker accepted their thanks gladly. He almost felt sorry for the haggard parents. Four children already, and the mother held an egg in her arms.

The clouds continued to thicken. On the horizon, there was a faint glow, red and threatening against the heavy cloud ceiling that hung over it. As inevitably as a sunrise, it approached the village, which watched on in wonder.

fortress

tap tap tap

He looked up from the notebook he was scribbling in. The pen jerked across the paper, a deep gash marring the pristine page.

Pretty fucking jumpy eh Gary?

Just writing.

Yeah that much is obvious.

The other man stepped into the enclosed porch and shut the screen door behind him. Mosquito season and the bloodsuckers where sieging the sagging old manse. It had survived a civil war it would survive another summer surely.

Gary cracked open the notebook again, the tattered spine creaking as the glue stretched. The faint sound of wind in the grass, the insect army outside, and the sound of a book straining to be opened. Quiet didn’t begin to suffice.

Good day?

The other man settled into the chair.

Gary clicked his pen. The retort was answer enough. He began to scribble silently again on the paper. The ink was laid down in deep channels cut into a new world by the metal nib. The page beside it bore all the scars of a thousand other like tattoos scratched into it.

Barbara told me I could find you here. Said you were finally working on your book again. Glad to see she wasnt mistaken. You have an obligation Henry or did you forget?

Gary didn’t stop writing. His hand was tight and savage, choking curls of Es and As and Os like strangulated gasps. Ts and Is with all the subtlety of a stabbing victim. It was a mess to read, put down at the blood screaming speed of newborn thought. The dry sound of the nib digging into the paper was uncomfortably loud. 

You know after such a long time this is going to be an event. You could get interviews. Maybe some TV spots. People will want to know where Gary has been these past long years and whats so special about this notebook full of chicken scratches that came unexpected in the eleventh hour of an authors decline.

The pen hesitated on the page, the writing stopping mid-sentence. Gary set the pen down and reached over for the tall glass of tea. He took a long drink and set it down again, hand wet from condensation wiping against his pants before he picked up his pen again. The ice, melting in the heat, clinked softly on its own accord in the glass.

Yeah I know I wasnt invited. What do you want from me? Its my job to check in on you from time to time. I just had to make sure the rumors were true. It was starting to spread and if you werent here to do this I needed to be able to cut them off at the knees before people were expectin something you never meant to produce.

tap tap tap

Gary tapped the back of the bed against the notebook. Far away, the wind carried the sound of a truck driving along the road a quarter mile distant. The sound of gravel crunching and a motor revving was jarring in this natural quiet. Gary stopped tapping. 

“I’m writing something. When it’s done, if it’s done, you’ll be the first to know. I can’t give you any more assurance than that.”

He clicked the pen open again and began to write in his same hurried, haggard hand. The other man waited for more, but when it wasn’t forthcoming and the scratching of the pen seemed to sink into the ambient noise along with the insects at the screen, he seemed to give up.

Well thats all right. Ill try to downplay the excitement a little. Keep it at a simmer. I dont suppose you know how long thisll take?

The sounds of this place, insistent and unrelenting, crashed around him with a tranquil road. 

No I suppose you wouldnt. Ill check back in a month say and see how far its come. Dont worry about anything We take care of those who do right by us. And you certainly have.

He stood up, making to leave. He extended his hand in farewell. Gary glanced up, just for a second, but didn’t make to move. Instead he just kept writing. The other man shifted uncomfortably, wiping his hand against his shirt where it left a faint sweat stain. This accursed place was getting to him. He was leaking like a sieve here away from temperature controlled rooms where he dwelt.

Um all right I guess Ill be going.

The other man turned and walked back to the door. It squeaked loudly when it opened, thudded back into place softly right behind him. The bugs swarmed over him as though he were a sacrifice meant to appease them. He swore loudly, slapping his own skin, as he hurried back to his car.

Gary watched him go. The engine started. Tires spun on gravel and soon the car was headed back down the dirt path that made up his driveway. When they finally hit the distant gravel and the sounds of the world around him drowned out the other man’s retreat, Gary allowed himself a long sigh.

He took another sip of his iced tea. It was delicious, painfully cold in this heat. It was all the fuel he needed. Bending his neck to one side until it gave out a crack of protest, he began to write again, the nib tearing its manic path across the page.

The mosquito siege continued.

The day wore on.

The ice cubes melted away.

And the write wrote.

customer appreciation ][ short story ][

"There's something to be said for dining alone. There is only so much of another person's company one can take before one is driven to distraction. And when someone is dining with others as often as I, it becomes a singular luxury to simply ... have silence, for a while.

"Of course, make no mistake. I love the company of others as much as the next fellow. But there are some things that simply cannot be replaced, and the joy of being able to have individual, secret thoughts is too much to pass up.

"Then again, talking is what I do. I provide a service with this, my art. With this, my voice. With this, my words. Conversation, perhaps. Ahem. Regardless, what I'm saying is that as a Fifth Level Conversationalist my words are my pride... a great source of pride. And if the price is right ... no, no, no. Um ... hrm, let's see here. And that skill could bring a unique and excellent flavour to any gathering ... party ... social event. Social event that would benefit from my services."

There was the sound of a knock and the man set down the flute of wine he had been staring at as he cast a glance towards the door. He turned back to the empty table, and the device upon it.

"Excuse me, I am taking several appointments today. I'll continue this when I return."

The man, thin and slender and good-looking, rose and made his way to the door. He wore a suit, even in his own home. When he answered the door he did so with all the practiced grace of a professional, and invited his guest to come and sit in the living room. The guest was a middle-aged man, with a sagging gut and a well-worn sweatshirt.

"I .. uh, hope I'm not bothering you," the guest said as he sat down heavily in the middle of the couch.

"No, of course not," said the Conversationalist as he sat down. "My name is ———————, who am I speaking to?"

"Oh, yes, um ... I'm Jeff. Jeff Katz. I'm here to .. uh, well, you see, the office is having a party and there are these two girls and..."

The Conversationalist nodded as if he understood. "And you wish to have a companion with you so that you can approach them both with the safety of equal numbers."

"Um, yes, something like that. You see, they're so close, and I know I could maybe have a chance with one of them but the other, she just keeps getting in the way. So if you could, would you... y'know, show up?"

"I'd be delighted." The Conversationalist handed Jeff a business card. "You have a home computer, do you not? Of course. Well, on my website there is a list of services offered, and for this I'll charge you only for 'one time dating services.'"

"How much is that?"

"Nothing extravagant," the Conversationalist said. "I'll enchant your lovely lady's companion, you can make your move, and I'll express a distinct lack of interest in pursuing the matter further. Perhaps I could be a buddy from college, in for a single night, pulled along because you had to attend. You do have to attend, don't you?"

"Well, no, not really, but..." A light went on behind Jeff's wide eyes. "Oh. Oh! Um ... yes, of course. I have to attend. I'm an assistant to the regional manager. I couldn't not show up."

"Very well then. Enter the code on the bottom of this card so I know we spoke in person, and I'll call you to finalize the details within a day." The Conversationalist stood up. "Now I hate to be rude, but I was finishing dinner and I have another appointment in ten minutes."

"Oh, sure." Jeff stood up and quickly headed towards the door. "Um... I'll see you around then, I guess. Uh, talk to you later." And Jeff noisily let himself out.

The Conversationalist made his way back to the table and picked up the glass of wine.

"Mr. Katz shows a remarkable lack of tact, as you no doubt were able to pick up. That is not his fault, of course. A man of his caliber simply has no training in the finer arts of relating to other people. But I make no excuses. Good for him, that he can get through life so blind and helpless. I'm glad for him.

"You may scoff, but I do indeed feel glad for him. Without him, people in my line of work wouldn't exist. His ineptitude is my livelihood. I can only commend his show of good taste in coming to me. Now, let's see here."

"Oh, look at that. He's potentialy customer 500. But then, a Mrs. Summerfield is supposed to show up and since she isn't late, perhaps she's more likely to be around to seal the deal. If she goes first, then she will most undoubtedly be 500. And we all know what 500 customers means.

"It just goes to show Mr. Katz that he shouldn't be late to his engagements. He didn't even apologize for being over thirty minutes late. The brute."

There was a pause and the Conversationalist finished his drink. He set the glass upon the table and slowly turned to face the empty room.

"Four hundred and ninety-nine people. That's how many people I've helped. What a milestone! Five hundred people could be a small town. And I went into each and every one of their lives. I took what was deficient, and I fixed it. When there was a need, I filled it. Those that required training received it. Those that just needed a shining point in their party were the proud hosts of dazzled guests. Single women needing respectable dates were suddenly the favorite daughter.

"All this, and for such a low price. I deal with the fumbling and desperate in society. The struggling and unfortunate. The unenlightened and the low-witted. All these people rest comfortable in their ignorance, and I do nothing when not asked.

"But now comes Mrs. Summerfield. A woman who's already tried haggling my prices over the phone. And I know what she wants. I've heard of her. She's a customer referral. The Women's Society at Unity Church is having a soiree, and I'm something of a constant. They pass me around, each one bringing me as if I had never been there. And then I listen to the same tired stories, the same long-winded conversations. A bunch of old hags sitting around tea, with only one man to share among them. I am the Eye of a Better Life.

"Yes, Mrs. Summerfield. Who will of course demand the same 'Dinner Companion' package that I gave to Miss Beaumont because she was suffering with her bills. Too bad Mrs. Summerfield isn't suffering. No, she's just cheap, with her carefully squirrelled away money from too many dead husbands and her worn down shoes.

"Five hundred warm bodies. Can you imagine? So many people, lacking so fundamental a thing. And me, the beacon of hope in their lives. One out of five hundred. That's hardly too much to ask, is it? I don't think so. I really don't. And if it is, I must confess that I don't care.

"Yes, Mrs. Summerfield will do nicely. Poor Mr. Katz is young, even if he is stupid. In time, maybe he would come around. Maybe I'll work my charms on him, being the 499th person. A special case, given the top attention possible as I head around the bend towards that magical four digits.

"Not Mrs. Summerfield. Too old. Too fragile. Yes, too fragile. All this moist weather has been hard on her, is what the gossip says. Hacking coughs. Sleepless nights. She is easily the oldest, the matriarch with an iron fist. It would be nothing. No major thing.

"Yes, a very small thing indeed.

"Who is she to deny taking the suffering? I have given so many meaningless smiles to people who needed them. The empty spaces and long nights full of my struggles. So unappreciated. By now I'm so good at my job, rarely do they think I did anything at all. Which is the best compliment, I suppose, but ... it's so hard to make a living by doing 'nothing.'

"That's all right. My fees are modest and my manner quiet. I will continue. I will endure. And exact my price when the time comes.

"Oh! Do I hear the door? Then the time has come. The time has come, for a single moment, to be selfish. Who could blame me, just once, for being discourteous? Nobody is that much of a saint. The Pope himself couldn't get through dinner 500 times without once offending someone. And I am no religious figure. I am only a man, like any other...

"Mrs. Summerfield! Of course you can let yourself in! I wanted to extend my congratulations. You are officially my five hundredth customer!

"Just wait until you see what I have in store for you!"

—*—

Sarah decided to write a short story on a whim. I believe that it was originally for a contest which I talked her down from. Whatever you wanted, under 1500 words. And here is mine, in its third (and shortest, if you believe it) iteration.

The inspiration for this comes out of my own life, and my continued efforts to try to quantify every aspect of my relationships with people (typically joking). Though, of course, I would rather be rude than tolerant. And thank god, after seeing where infinite patience gets you.

A new project of sorts.

Hi there. Random update. As a side project, I'm going to be doing a few short stories in the mystery/detective/noir genre. Because I'm weird, I'm doing them as a hopefully ongoing project that I'll be posting on a fictional blog. I just started, so if you go over there don't expect a whole lot yet. But you can get in early if you want. I haven't even put up a template or removed my test post yet.

The blog is called The Wonderful World of Hiroki Sugai.

Peruse (or ignore) at leisure. I'll write some for it this weekend, I'm sure, in between editing.