Velvet Unicorn

“You’ll know it when you see it – or, more specifically feel it,” a hopeless romantic once told him (but since divorced).

With further elaboration, the “it” being the elusive unicorn Mark was seeking…and was lead to believe was out there.


Just where this magical, mythical being was hiding, was anybody’s guess. Living with the Tooth Fairy and the Easter Bunny, perhaps? He truly wanted to believe it existed. Once upon a time, he had no doubt. But it’s always only a matter of time before reality overshadows fantasy.

He certainly had ample reason to have his doubts – especially lately. But he was willing to suspend disbelief and give it a shot, joining the ranks of those who not only believed that unicorns existed, but believed that it was just a matter of waiting for the universe to help you find your very own.

Of course, it’s much easier to believe in such a thing when you are young and naïve – akin to a child’s belief in Santa. But as time goes by, it eventually fades into the rabbit hole oblivion of myth.

When we’re young still young, we are often struck by Cupid and can’t help but believe in it. But overtime, most come to see it as fool’s gold. And though Mark’s belief in true love was almost fully extinguished, there were still embers burning beneath the ash.

Even the most hopeless of romantics feel the foundation begin to crack by the time they reach 40 if they are still single. If married, their views of love have probably been significantly altered. As well.

Mark was certainly no hopeless romantic. And certainly way less now than before his marriage deteriorated beyond the point of repair. Not even marriage counseling could crack that nut. Or, more accurately, the nut was already cracked beyond repair.

Yet, despite fading faith, there was still a part of him that believed that his magical unicorn was lingering out there.


And quite likely sharing the same thoughts and doubts as he was.

Holding on to hope wasn’t such a bad thing.

At 37, Mark was still young enough to be considered young. In the eyes of his students, however, he was ancient. And he couldn’t help but feel that way.

The downside to still believing that your special someone is out there at Mark’s age meant dealing with an avalanche of anxiety attached to the realization that even though you believed your soul mate existed out there somewhere, the universe was determined and conspiring to keep you apart at all costs.

And that time was running out.

He couldn’t help but wonder if this was worse than the contrary belief that one’s soul mate never existed to begin with.

When you truly believe that their special one is out there, life becomes an endless scavenger hunt. A game driven by the realization that every outing is rife with the possibility that your unicorn might be waiting around every corner, at every bar, at every café, or in every bookstore, which means leaving no stone unturned, for fear of missing out on the one thing you are searching for more than anything.

Because you are in search of that one person who not only truly gets you…but that you will truly get yourself. The one person who is like mirror reflecting your best self, deflecting all the things you fucking hate. Yet, despite the fact that you have everything in common, there are still several mysteries waiting to be unraveled. And it all seems too good to be true. And you can’t eat. Because your stomach is filled with the constant flutter of butterflies.

A unicorn is also someone that makes you feel compelled to write out long messages on a note pad before you type it out to make sure you get it just right. It’s regretting that you didn’t phrase a message just so. Or, that you left out a line. It’s hearing a song in your car and you’re convinced she’s hearing the same song, even when you know it’s not even possible.

And the world is never more full of color. Even during a dreary Michigan winter.

And then reality sets in. Before you fall out of love. Before the sex drive is gone. Before some one cheats. Before the dream is given up on. Before you feel like strangers, despite all the familiarities and similarities you once shared. When the allure of romance and endless potential becomes mundane, annoying, boring. And all you see are not only the worse parts of that person you were once so obsessed over, but the worst parts of yourself, which are now somehow, deeply and horrifyingly magnified. Once you get to this point, there is no turning back. You either go through the heartbreak of break up, or you both live with the heartbreak of wondering if the unicorn was fool’s gold.

A false flag.

And before you know it, you suddenly find yourself searching for your missing unicorn once again. And it’s doubly sad, because the person you thought was your unicorn is probably thinking the same thing about you. Or, possibly fucking someone behind your back. Or, perhaps, you are on your own private, lonely island, which means they are either oblivious, or they have become too complacent to give a fuck.

Of course, none of it really comes as much of a surprise. We are used to thinking the person who just might be “the one” actually isn’t – no matter how much and intensely you shared the same wavelength. In fact, it is often the ones that come on the most sudden that are often to be most disappointing. Sometimes, life simply gets in the way and despite doing everything in your power to make it work, you end up going separate ways. But we cherish even the failed or false unicorns because if even for a moment – a drunken night, an all nigh chat session, or whatever the case may be, it was fucking beautiful. Like a comet that goes as quickly as it came. Sometimes, a temporary unicorn comes into our life when we most need it.

And sometimes, this means realizing when it’s time to move on.

And evolve.

Coming to the realization that that our true unicorn is probably still out there somewhere.

But then we remember that it is called a unicorn for good reason: it’s not only elusive. It probably doesn’t even exist. Yet, we keep searching anyway. And falling into the same pattern that ultimately leads to disappointment, rejection, resentment, loneliness, desperation…which is more than often the case.

Which is exactly how Mark ended up drunk most nights at his neighborhood dive, notebook in hand, with the aim of putting a dent in the novel that he had been toiling over for 15 years. Spinning in its tracks.

Fifteen fucking years. Longer than his marriage by half. And perhaps even more frustrating and abusive. But yet, it was his first love. And he figured since he had already put so much blood, sweat, and tears into something that never reciprocated (much like his marriage – though he was equally at fault), he would stick with it, till death do him part (unlike the marriage she finally put out of its misery. Because, as she said “You’re too much of a fucking coward to end it.”)

Although his optimism regarding finding his unicorn was quickly fading, he still had full faith in his novel – his elusive Moby Dick. Though he was certain he would never give up on his dream, his biggest fear was that fucking novel would never see the light of day. It was this very fear that motivated him to keep poking away at it. In fact, the more time passed, the harder he worked at it. If only he put this much effort into his marriage. Then again, it was his “stupid” writing dream that played a huge role in dissolution of his marriage. Of course,

She would never understand how much it hurt him that in 10 year of marriage, she never read a goddamn word of what you wrote, nor did she ever ask what he was working on. Nor, get excited when he shared a new idea. She simply didn’t give a shit. And it hurt like hell. Eventually, he got to the point where he stopped sharing things with her. It was also around this time that he reached the beginning of the end.

And it wasn’t like he didn’t take interest in her pursuits. He understood it took two to tango. She just never wanted to dance.

For years, they were two people living under the same roof, but living two separate lives. Of course, not having kids only expedited this existence. Perhaps, if they had kids, they would have fought harder. Or, stayed married for the kids. Then how miserable would they have been? Maybe kids only would have made it worse.

As far as his book was concerned, he knew he ultimately had no control over whether would someone actually publish his book. But he would never stop knocking at doors.

Since the divorce, Mark devoted most of his evenings to his writing. Bourbon was his muse. When he wrote at home, he usually ended up passed out at his computer earlier than he would have preferred. So he started frequenting bars more often – not to pick up women, but so he could stay awake and write. He always wrote best when surrounded by stimulation. He fed off it. Every now and then, an attractive stranger would catch his eye and become his unknowing muse.

Lately, however, his he started to feel like perhaps the time had come to give dating a try, for the first time since he was last single – 15 years ago to be exact. He doubted he would be any better at the game now, than he was then. In fact, he was likely to be worst with rust.

It didn’t help that when it came to the opposite sex, he felt anxiety anytime he had to talk to a cute female – a waitress, cashier, whatever the case may be. So how the fuck was he going to ever start dating? Perhaps he would give a dating app a try. Or, two.    After all, his elusive unicorn could very well be a right swipe away. Narrowing things down could only help!

It was time to get serious about finding a muse, rather than his usual barista or bartender crush he was prone to falling for without their knowledge of his existence. Sometimes, he would fall for a fellow customer, going so far as to project an entire life’s history on to her. Yet, he would never give himself the opportunity to discover if his projection came anywhere close to the truth because he didn’t have the goddam balls to do anything about it. At least it wasn’t all for naught – often, these “one night muses” ended up populating his stories.

Lately, he was frequenting bars fare more coffee than his usual coffee shops. Part of it was the fact that caffeine seemed to be keeping him up at night, more so than in the past. But the truth of the matter was that he was depending on alcohol more and more lately, going as far as to convince himself that drinking was making his writing better. Much like his writing, his Mark’s life lately was one very rough, unending draft. And it was time for some major polishing.

Part of time hope that by frequenting bars – and increasing alcohol consumption – he would somehow find the courage to strike up a conversation and maybe – somehow – get back into the game.

Perhaps some girl will be so fascinated by a guy writing in a bar, she would approach him! It was only natural that if she his true unicorn would be turned on by his writing. Of course, in reality, he was aware of what a pretentious douche bag he probably looked like.

Then again, did he really want to drag another woman into the murky swamp of a writer?

He realized his desire for a muse was a bit selfish on his part. But he sure loved the idea of writing stories secretly just for her. Stories that she inspired. And then she would read them. And then they would have dinner. Watch a movie. Make love. And life would be good. Life could be good. If only he could just get out of his own way.

Of course, it was usually while riding the high of a writing session, combined with ample amounts of bourbon, that he was more convinced than ever that his elusive unicorn was out there.


But where?

And then…

“Are you writing a book?”

Peering over his shoulder was the ginger angel of his dreams.

“Yes. Trying to, at least.”

Where in the hell did she come from? How had he not noticed her until she appeared? She was exactly the type of he would have typically instantly noticed.

“What’s it about?
“A thriller about a guy who realizes that ‘s an alternative version of himself living the life he always wanted.”

“Oh, wow. That sounds fantastic! String theory stuff, right?”

“Yeah. Exactly.”

“Are you a writer?” he asked.

“Me?” she said with a laugh.

“No. But I am an avid reader. Mind if I sit here?”


What is happening?

            Surely some sort of prank. He kept waiting for a camera crew to jump out of some dark corner.

Was he dreaming?

This type of shit never happened to him.


Three hours later, they were still talking.

And drinking.

And sharing an appetizer.

Their conversation was effortless; their mutual interests endless – especially as it pertains to film, music, and literature. And despite everything in common, he realized how many mysteries remained to be explored.

From a physically standpoint, she was just his type. Red head, with a punk edge exterior, but a sweet interior.

And perhaps most importantly, she was so damn curious about his writing! He wasn’t used to this. Why would she give a shit? She hadn’t even read a single word he had written – but that was soon about to change.

“So what made you want to talk to me?” he awkwardly asked.

“Because you seemed so cute, writing away in your little notebook. And it was refreshing to see a guy in a bar who wasn’t there to pick up chicks.”

This. Cannot. Be. Real.

So what next? His lack of confidence was certainly still intact. Because he just assumed that even after this amazing conversation, they would go their separate ways.    Closing time.

He walked her out, an assertive action, aided by the fact that he had no choice since the bar was closing its doors.

Standing out the parking lot, a light snow flurry fell on them, as they awkwardly stood there awaiting an unwritten goodbye. Both seemed unsure as to what to do next, despite both likely wanting the same thing.

And then:

“Want to come back to my place?” she asked.

            No way this was happening.

“Yes,” he said in response to her question. “That would be great.”

With nothing to lose, he followed her back to her apartment just conveniently down the road, listening to “Across the Universe” as the replayed his unexpected evening in his mind.

Nothing seemed forced.

Or, awkward.

Just two people at a bar.

Just as he fantasized over and over again. Just like he had seen in the movies, time again. And now, somehow, it was happening.

But was it really?

It was happening.

And of course, how fitting that what happened next was the best sex of his life.

Surely, it was too soon to assume she was his true unicorn. Right?

“You’ll know it when you see it – or, more specifically feel it.”

And the second he entered her bedroom – moments before he entered her, he had as close to an answer as he could ever expect to get.

Hanging above her bed, was a giant, velvet painting.

Of a beautiful, glorious unicorn.









Napkin Notes

“Life is a long preparation for something that never happens.” W.B. Yeats

I am surrounded by beards, moustaches, and knit hats, 80’s style glasses, and short bangs, wannabe DJs and rockers, and the sad, stale scene of PBR mixed with a hint of weed.

I am writing on a stack of napkins at a table across from the bar.

What a fucking cliché.

All that is missing is a quill pen.

Or, typewriter.

And yes, I realize the hypocrisy of making fun of hipsters while frequenting one of their establishments. But in fairness, I was coming here long before it was the “in” – or even ironic – thing to do. Before I was washed up

But is it even possible to be washed up if you were really nothing to begin with?

So rather than the cliché douchebag hipster, I’m the douchebag in the skinny tie, Banana Republic pants, and Kohl’s dress shit, sitting in front of a stack of cocktail napkins, writing all this drivel down, because I left my composition book at home.

What would look worse, anyway? The asshole writing on cocktail napkins? Or, the asshole writing freehand in a worn composition book?

In a place filled with fucking douchebags and assholes galore, I am a fucking asshole douchebag.

And why am I being so hard on myself? So what if I left my notebook at home? There are worse things. Though I can’t help but be annoyed with myself. The sole purpose of heading out was to fucking write. Which is akin to forgetting a bathing suit when you planned on going swimming.

It doesn’t help that my mind isn’t itself these days. What exactly was that “self” anyway? Not even I remember. My friends seem to. They keep reminding me that the “old me” has disappeared. Might as well put my fucking face on a milk cartoon.

So specifically, why am I at this Detroit drive, wasting my limited funds on unlimited whiskey? First of all, I justify it with cheap whiskey. It wasn’t long ago when I would abhor that shit. Now, it’s all I can afford.

My, how the mighty has fucking fallen.

As to why I’m here? Where else would I be?


Define home.

Crashing on the couch of a stranger – the only communication being a clear directive that there is to be no communication beyond paying rent – of which I could barely afford.

And why should a complete stranger give a flying fuck about me anyway? It wasn’t like I gave two shits about them. It’s cheap rent. A roof over my head. And a couch pillow for which to lay my head upon.

I used to have a house, until my wife threw me out – or, at least the discarded shell of my former self. You cheat one fucking time and suddenly, you’re on the street. Don’t get me wrong. Not looking for a pity party. I fucking deserved what I got. I cheated. She caught me. And now I’m living with the consequences.

Apparently, when you fuck the universe smack dab into its clitoral core, the universe fucks you RIGHT back up the ass.

So why did I cheat? There is no “why”. There was never a why. There will never be a why. There’s just…is. Once one understands that, one understands LIFE.

To be honest, not even sure I would have wanted to work things out if she tried, so in some ways. It was almost like I wanted to get caught. At least, some small part of me. I was otherwise content keeping it all as secret for as long as possible. After all, it was just sex. Wasn’t like I had fallen in love or anything. Looking back, perhaps I should have just gone the strip club route. Or a rub and tug. Sure, it would have cost money. But look at the price I’m paying now!




Of course – and again, not to justify – the cheating didn’t happen until after years of slowly getting my fucking heart out ripped out.

I know I should probably see all of this as a blessing. I’m free now. Maybe some day, I will realize this. When my feet are finally firmly planted on the ground. When the fuck that will be is anybody’s guess. Least of all, mine.

Sorry for the fuck-bombs, by the way. I honestly never swore this much until she left. Getting it all out of my system, I guess. But how much bile can possibly be left in me? In all honesty, it’s a habit I am hoping to break, once I find my center again. That oughta bring my fuck quotient down to a far more acceptable degree. But right now, swearing is cathartic as fuck.

And hopefully, by coming here tonight, I would get one step closer to finding my old self – my new old self. If not through my writing, then by some lasting memory.

For no particular reason, I just can’t help but feel as though something big is going to happen tonight. Not quite sure why – or what – but I do know I never quite felt this way before. At least not in this current incarnation of my life. Just what that something was, I have no fucking clue. Perhaps it would be finding the courage to talk to a woman at the bar? Mabye a new and profound story?

Or, the most likely probability…nothing at all.

So again, why this fucking shithole you might ask?

First off, fuck those pretentious craft cocktail bars that are taking over every other dive bar in town. Secondly, it’s close to home. And the music’s good (most of the time, at least…though it’s live music night and based on the first band, my hopes aren’t getting too high. In fact, it sounds like a fucking high school garage band that stopped practicing months ago).

Apparently, there’s a special benefit or fundraiser or some shit for some cafe that burned down.

Who would throw my benefit?

The bar tonight is too crowded for my liking. Not typical for a Wednesday night. And frequenting bars is certainly nothing new to me. Even before she left, I used to head out for writing sessions once or twice a week. However, the frequency was growing exponentially, despite the fact that the quantity (and by extension, quality) of my writing has gone in the opposite direction, despite the fact that bars were where I typically did my best writing – amidst the chaos of a public space, rather than in the quiet solitude of a desk. Then again, lately, it doesn’t matter where I write – or, more specifically attempt to write. Really, all I’m doing right now is hoping that somehow, magical prose will find a way to flow out of my pen like diarrhea, aided by ample amounts of cheap whiskey.

I am fully committed at this point.

Anything to break free from this writer’s block that has been plaguing me ever since my muse-in-sheep’s clothing walked out the door. Had it been totally up to her, I would have stopped writing altogether. And in the months leading up to the end, that’s exactly what I did. And where I most lost my sense of self. Like a drug addict discovering that the drug one is addicted to is the only thing keeping you semi-functional.

So here I am, without my goddam notebook and using wafer-thin paper that tear apart upon contact with my ballpoint pen. Of course, I could have gone back for it, but then again, that would have required energy I didn’t have – or, no longer knew how to summon. Wouldn’t be the first time I resorted to napkins when suddenly overcome with an urge to spill out my guts with pen on paper. Or, my own flesh.

Besides, there’s something liberating about quickly filling one napkin after another, as though they were entire notebook pages, rather than a 6×6 inch square or whatever the fuck length they were, filled with loose fragments and tidbits that may or may eventually reveal themselves to be the DNA of an eventual story. More than likely, these impressionistic loose strands would never amount to a hill of beans, but it was still as exhilarating and cleansing as fuck. Take, for instance, this batch of bunched up bullshit, the “literary” equivalent of watching a chicken running around with its head cut off. At least I am putting something to paper. Progress. The next step would be to figure out how to break from the variation of the same theme that I had been writing about for a good couple of years now: dissolving, sexless marriages, and lonely, downtrodden protagonists desperately looking for a new lease on life.

The line between my fiction and memoir was becoming especially blurred and more circular than ever. No wonder why I have no clarity or focus.

Spinning in my tracks. In life. And in writing.

Before I know it, I reach the bottom of my original stack of a dozen or so napkins, presumably left behind by a previous customer (and – from what I could gather – slightly used). I head up to the bar to ask for more, but get the stink eye.

I mean, how dare I?!

After all, this is the same bartender that ignored my existence for over 10 minutes before he took my order. My favorite bartender had the night off. She would never ignore me. (Or, in my mind at least, she wouldn’t). She had been my unsuspecting muse for quite some time now. A muse is a muse, whether she knows it or not. And man, I wish I had the balls to ask her out. I mean, I am technically single now, even if not legally so. But could I have had ever worked up the courage to ask her out? Not likely. Chances are, even if I did come up with the courage, I would swing and miss like so many another avenues of life lately.

I still couldn’t help but feel like something big was going to happen tonight. I felt it the second I entered this bag.

But what?

Fuck should I know.

Again, probably much ado about nothing. After all, why the fuck should be any different than any other night? Getting my hopes up is the story of my life.

So, I will remain passive, armed with a new stack of napkins and a bottle of Stroh’s (I reached my whiskey limit and made the call to the bullpen) and continue to pour out these wayward ramblings in search of coherence and acclaim. Like Hemingway and Burroughs before me, equally boozed up, but with only miniscule fraction of their talent.

As the minutes dwindle onward, the feverish pace I was writing at minutes before has become a drizzle of words were doodles, mostly consisting of Batman and baseballs. The only two thins I can draw. It was becoming more and more clear that the only thing I would accomplish tonight was finding the bottom of glasses.

I take a minute to scroll through Facebook. – the ultimate writer’s cockblock. Make it 10 minutes. Nothing of substance per usual, yet I addictively scroll and scroll and scroll – burning up the remaining fumes of my creativity. What I really need is a social media hiatus, but then again that would only further isolate myself from humanity. Lately, it seems all I did was piss people of on there with my snarky comments and passive-aggressive sub-posts. I never used to be like this. I was always sunshine and roses. Now, I’m a goddam storm cloud, raining on everyone’s fucking parade.

Halfway through my beer, I decide it’s time to wander a bit. So I pocket my shitty scribbles and the puts the blanks in another. Part of me thought about simply throwing them away, but why chance discarding a potential diamond in the rough? Then again, once I got home, these napkins were destined to join their fellow orphan napkins, scrap paper, and envelopes tattooed with notes that didn’t amount to shit and that would never see the light of day again (at least, not until next time I opened the box to add new pieces of shit some future drunk night much like this one).



I enter the adjacent room, which features the stage, where a DJ spins New between bands. Her frantic movements behind the controls suggested she was doing way more work than necessary as New Order’s “Bizarre Love Triangle” plays.

A few scattered people stood along the perimeter of the dance floor. A lone dancer stood at the center of the floor, likely riding on a magic carpet ride of E. Maybe I should give it a shot sometime. Then again, I’ve barely smoked weed. Less than two years to be exact. And I could count on two hands the number of times I tried it. I thought it would make me more creative. But it didn’t. In fact, just the opposite. So clearly not ready to graduate to another drug. I’ll just stick with bourbon.

I head outside for some fresh air. The entrance is crowded with smokers, so I drift further down the street, into a light snowfall. A homeless man heads my way – the last thing I want to be dealing with right now. Torn green army jacket. Beard. Long-ish hair. Maybe he isn’t homeless. Maybe he’s just a patron.

“Excuse me,” the man says as he approaches me.

Here we go.

“Got a couple bucks?”

            Guess my first guess was right after all.

As broke as I am, I probably had more than him. At least, I hoped so. I gave him a couple of bucks. If I get booze, why not this poor sap?

“God bless you, sir. God bless.”

“You, too.”

“Do you gotta a light?

“Sorry, man. Can’t help you there. But I know some people who might be able to help.”

I nod toward the smokers at the bar entrance. He heads toward them. I follow. Too fucking cold for this shit.

I grab another beer. I return to my seat, hoping that my little jaunt will have somehow shook a story loose like a stubborn dingleberry.




The homeless guy has entered the bar. He hovers tat the door momentarily, then starts toward me. When he finally recognizes me, he stops, realizing he already solicited me and heads off in search of greener pastures.

Nobody seems willing to listen.

“Why the fuck won’t anyone talk to me?!” he shouts to no one in particular.

The bartender takes notices. Approaches. And likely to be a dick about it.

He is.

“What the fuck did I do?” the homeless man demands to know.

“You need to leave.”

“I just want to listen to music and make friends.”

“Go. Before I call the police.”

This seems to do the trick. He leaves without further incident.

This all could have been avoided if I invited him to join me. But I didn’t.

A hipster chick resembling a fucking John Waters character begins setting up merch on the table next to me.

She’s dressed all in pink, wearing a pink flamingo lapel pin.

“I like your flamingo,” I say.

A desperate attempt at flirtation?


But courage, nonetheless.

I scan the merchandise. A band called The Pink Flamingoez. That explains it.

We converse.

Turns out she’s the girlfriend of the band’s lead singer. She explains that the band is a “a Pink Floyd cover band with the combine aesthetic of John Waters.”

Guess I wasn’t far off after all.

She struggles to set up a clothing rack, from which hangs Pink Flamingoez t-shirts.

I stare at the unused napkins in front of me. Take a sip of beer.

And the world continues to spin.

It’s all it can do.

With or without us.

And with that thought, I realize I am getting sleepy. And should probably head home.

I accept the fact that nothing of significance was going to tonight after all.

And then:


The clothing rack collapses, knocking me directly on my head.

Metal on skull.

I see it from the corner of my eye before I feel it.

Miss John Waters becomes extremely apologetic.

But I laugh. And laugh. And laugh.

And then I realize: the “big” moment I was waiting for – hoping for – all night

had arrived.

A reminder that we’re all flawed. And vulnerable.

Or to reduce the fraction – human.

Dinner for Two

In an ordinary suburb like so many countless others, Teddy and Chloe set out for the mundane task of grocery shopping. However, they did not arrive together. In fact, they did they know one another at all. Neither noticed when they: passed each other by in the cereal aisle, stood side-by-side at the deli counter, simultaneously reached for bananas, stood next to another in neighboring check out lines. Nor, did they noticed when they loaded their groceries into their cars and pulled out of the parking lot, before driving away in opposite directions.

Teddy hurried home to get dinner underway, regretting that he hadn’t done his shopping earlier. Whenever his wife worked a 13-hour shift at the children’s hospital, it liked to make sure dinner waiting for her when she came home. As much as he loved doing this task, she would still feel the urge to remind him that he had no excuse not to. He was, after all, “only a teacher. Your job is easy. Mine is not.” He actually agreed with her, but she acted otherwise.

Even if tonight’s dinner wasn’t ready on time, he was making something both new and vegetarian (though, he preferred meat). Hopefully she would at least appreciate that. And maybe, she would even agree to have sex for the first time in almost two months.

Wishful thinking.

Chloe, on the other hand, admittedly wasn’t the greatest cook in the world, which was one of two reasons why she preferred not to cook (general laziness, being the other). It also explained why her modest kitchen was even more modestly stocked. On the rare occasion that she did decide to cook, it usually necessitated a trip to the grocery store. Even if she had some of the ingredients, half the time, they were past their expiration date. But every now and then, she surprised both herself – and her husband – by having a meal waiting for him when he returned from a job he couldn’t stand.

She was hoping that this would be one of those nights. Fortunately, her kitchen “inadequacies” never seemed to bother him – at least not outwardly. They both joked that it was a good thing she didn’t cook that often: her cooking sucked. It wasn’t that he didn’t do his part from time to time, but only if it involved a grill.

“We can go out,” he would often suggest.

Tonight, she was going to make him his favorite: her mother’s meatloaf. Maybe, for once, he wouldn’t ask for sex for once. She figured that would be a fair trade off. If only he could better understand that to her, sex was a painful reminder of the fertility issues that had left them childless. As much as she tried to resist it, she equated sex with failure. As did the golden retriever they purchased in an attempt to fill the void.

Teddy arrived to his cookie-cutter colonial and quickly removed the bags of organic ingredients (if it were up to him, he would save money by buying non-organic items) from his trunk, before hurrying into the house. Despite his panicked urgency, he paused for a moment:

So what if dinner wasn’t waiting on the table the second she got home? How many times was dinner waiting on the table for him when he got home?

After all, she only worked three days a week. Sure, they were long hours, but three days all the same. He worked five. However, remembering how she was likely to respond if dinner wasn’t ready when she got home motivated him to hustle even more. It was a vicious cycle.

Across town, Chloe arrived at her cookie-cutter colonial and unloaded the groceries from her trunk, grabbing more bags than she could handle. Like Teddy, she regretted not doing her shopping earlier. She desperately wanted to make sure dinner was waiting for her husband when he arrived home. One of the plastic bag handles ripped off, dropping the contents onto the ground. Of course, it was the one bag containing something breakable: a carton of eggs. Only two of them survived. Fortunately, the recipe only called for two. Relieved, she lugged all her bags inside the house in two trips, put the groceries away, then opened a bottle of Pinot Noir. She paused momentarily, wondering if alcohol would only further impair her sub par cooking ability. She quickly dismissed that thought and poured half a glass in a compromise.

Meanwhile, Teddy opened a bottle of Pinot Grigio, poured himself a full glass, took a healthy sip, filled it back up, pre-lit the oven, then started preparing the meal. Despite suffering a small cut on his finger while chopping carrots, it wasn’t enough to deter him. He simply wrapped his finger in a paper towel and got back to work. He was making good time.

No stranger to kitchen clumsiness herself, Chloe burned her finger when she putting the meatloaf in the oven. She ran her finger under the lukewarm water, then wrapped it in a napkin, before heading upstairs into the bathroom to slap on a Band-Aid.

Meanwhile, Teddy placed the casserole into the oven, then guzzled down the remainder of his wine and set the table, just as Chloe took a baby sip of wine before she set the table.

Both Teddy and Chloe turned on some jazz, prepared a couple of side dishes, washed the dirty dishes, put away the remaining groceries, and lit a candles at the table. They then both sat down with their wine glass in hand, eagerly awaiting their spouses to come home (while paradoxically enjoying the “me time”). They took solace in knowing that they did something that would make their spouses happy – at least for one evening.

Teddy took another large sip of wine, before realizing that he should put the brakes on. If he wasn’t careful, he would kill the whole thing off. If he were to have any chance at getting laid tonight, she would also need wine. And probably a lot of it.

As Chloe finished off her first glass of wine, she found herself thinking:

Maybe I’ll even put out tonight.

She actually felt a tinge of horniness for once.


She considered pouring herself another glass, but decided to wait for dinner. She didn’t want to pass out before he got home. She rinsed out her glass, before setting it down on the table in front of her place setting.

The anticipated time of each spouse’s arrival passed by and day soon eroded into night. Phone calls were greeted by voicemail. Annoyance soon blossomed into mild anger, before concern.

Teddy turned the Tigers game on, relishing the opportunity to actually watch a game for once without somebody demanding that he change the channel – or even worse, shut the TV off all together.

On a couch across town, Chloe had fallen asleep while reading a book. There was nothing she loved more.

She awoke a half hour later and called her husband again. This time, it went straight to voicemail. She considered blowing out the candle, which now seemed to be mocking her. She decided to keep lit to keep some semblance of hope alive.

Across town, Teddy dialed his wife again. After a few rings, voicemail. Should he be worried? Every worse-case scenario suddenly consumed his thoughts. It was unlike her not to call if she was running behind. However, in the case of Chloe’s husband, this was par for the course.

Teddy dialed again. This time, she picked up.

“Hi, sorry, I didn’t hear my phone ring. I’m having dinner with Natasha. I’ll be home in a couple of hours.”

“Oh…” Teddy said, equally confused and disappointed.

“Am I not allowed to go out?” his wife asked with characteristic disdain.

“Of course you’re allowed to go out,” he said. “That’s not what I meant.”

“Then why do you sound so disappointed?”

“Well, if you have told me you were going out, I wouldn’t have bothered to prepare such a nice dinner.”

“Well, how was I supposed to know you were cooking?” she asked. “Plus, you need to eat, right?”

“It’s just not like you to not tell me what you’re doing.”

“Do I have to tell you everything I do?” she asked.

“No, you don’t,” Teddy replied. “But in this case, it would have been helpful. I was getting worried. It’s not like you do this sort of thing all the time.”

“Well, I’m sorry, but I’m a big girl. I don’t need you to worry about me like I was your child.”

“It’s okay,” Teddy said, trying to mask the disappointment in his voice. “We can eat it tomorrow.”

“If you’re trying to make me feel guilty, it isn’t working.”

“I’m not trying to make you feel guilty—”

She hung up on him. To his knowledge, for the first time in the history of their eight-year relationship.

Teddy stared at the phone in disbelief, before slamming it down on the table. He blew out the candle, then proceeded to take a chug straight from the bottle. He looked out the window into the black night

What happened to us?

Chloe, meanwhile, succumbed to pouring herself another glass of wine and took a sip, desperately awaiting the sound of her husband’s car pulling into the garage. One of the few highlights of her day was greeting her husband at the door. For the first time, she realized how pathetic it was.

Like an excited dog greeting an indifferent master.

When did he ever wait for her at the door?

She called him again. This time, he answered.

“Where are you?” she asked

“I had to run a few errands and am on the way to the gym.”

“I made you meatloaf.”

“Thanks. But I already ate,” her husband said with casual indifference.

“What do you mean you already ate?” she asked, trying to bury the hurt and rage building up inside her.

“I picked up some fast food. I didn’t think you were cooking.”

“The one time I cook a nice meal …”

“I’m sorry,” he snarked. “If you cooked more often, maybe I wouldn’t assume that I was on my own.”

The words reached her like a piercing blow.

She was too stunned to respond.

“If it makes you feel any better, I will take it to work tomorrow.”

“That’s not the point.”

“What is your point?”

“Nevermind,” she said.

“I’ll see you when I get home,” he said.

“Ok,” Chloe said on the verge of tears as she slowly hung up.

The time had come to finally blow out the candle. As she stared out the window: What happened to us?

Teddy and Chloe re-lit their candles, then poured themselves the remainder of their wine, taking solace in the notion that nobody could say they didn’t try.

They each raised their glass for an imaginary toast, before taking a long, deserving sip, before digging into their delicious, melancholy meal.

Unbeknownst to both of them – on the other side of town – Teddy and Chloe’s respective spouses also enjoyed a meal together that night. In an ordinary suburb like so many other countless others.

The Dare

On the bright side, he was writing again. And he had a muse. It is important to note that he was writing again because of the fact that he had a muse. Because without one, he didn’t write.

At some point, years ago on his journey into being the not-quite-successful writer that he was today, he somehow convinced himself that he needed to what amounted to a crush in order to write.

What a fucking pussy.

And what pompous, artsy bullshit.

As lame as it was, it worked for him. Or, at least he convinced itself it did, much like those who claim that prayer works, despite no concrete proof that their prayers are even heard at all.

Perhaps if his domestic situation wasn’t the shit-storm that it now was, he wouldn’t need a crush – muse – to light his fire. Though still married, it was a marriage of convenience at this point.

More like a mirage than a marriage.

The writing (or, lack thereof) had been on the fucking wall for years. If their marriage could be described in a concise, concrete matter, it would be as follows: Two people who ran a fucking in-home daycare operation. Sadly, he assumed, like so many other marriages. But he didn’t give a shit. He was beginning to have serious doubts about the whole Blink 182 “Stay Together for the Kids” philosophy that they had somehow agreed to years before (he was also sure as fuck that if the kids never existed in the first place, neither would his marriage). A cynical It’s a Wonderful Life.

A philosophy he didn’t sign up for, however, was the withhold-sex-from-your husband for months at a time until he becomes so antsy and bitter, he ends up fantasizing about muses that traditionally had the sole purpose of inspiring his prose.

As much as the lack of sex – or any other form of physical intimacy for that matter – fucking sucked, what sucked even more was her complete lack of interest and support for anything writing related. Though he didn’t blame her fully, nor did he expect her to read everything he wrote, her constant suggestions that he maybe just give up altogether was really fucking him up in the head. Mix that together with forced celibacy, it was no wonder why he felt like he was going to explode in all the ways a man can.

Hence, his increasingly ever-so-desperate need for a muse. And his growing need for someone to fuck.

Muses were usually not difficult to locate. They came in many forms and contexts: attractive co-workers who showed interest in his writing, the spouse of a friend who showed an interest in his writing, coffee shop baristas, customers in coffee shops, a woman seated next to him at the bar while he wrote, etc.

Some muses only lasted for a few hours. Some stuck with him for long periods of time. No matter what form or length of time, they were his fuel. And they took no effort on the part of the muse because in all likelihood, they had no fucking clue he existed. Having a muse who knew nothing about him, or his dream was better than having a wife who didn’t give a fuck at all.

Having a muse meant he was writing. And writing meant, he could tolerate life without sex. Or, at least, it made this reality more tolerable. He got a high off writing that akin to a drug… or a good fuck. So as long as he kept that beast fed, he could function like a “normal” human being.

Though he realized this all sounded fucked up, every writer had their quirks and rituals. For him, it was obsessing over an unobtainable female. Surely not the first writer to do so, right?

Every now and then, he would stop to ask himself: what if a muse suddenly did become obtainable? What would become of his writing then? What would become of his marriage? He realized that the time he normally spent writing would be evaporated in favor of fucking his muse. Though it would certainly solve one problem in his life, he saw how it had the potential to fuck up everything else (most significantly, his marriage). And though he knew deep down that he would probably be better off, what about the kids? He couldn’t let anything jeopardize the front he had to put up for their sake.

He figured as long as he had a muse, that would be enough right?

And then one day, he didn’t.

It was no coincidence that the first serious bout of writer’s block he experienced coincided with the longest drought without a muse.

He didn’t just have writer’s block. He apparently had muse block, too. The more desperate he was to find someone to reignite his drive, the more frustrated he got with every other component of his life.

Sometimes a change in atmosphere would be all he needed. It got him out of plenty of slumps before. Then again, this wasn’t the average slump. He settled on a new coffee shop across town, so it wasn’t exactly logistically convenient.

After a couple visits, not only did his writing start to emerge out of hibernation, but he had latched on to a new muse. A barista.


Though she had no idea, he was smitten the first time she took his order for a grande non-fact mocha. It was her eyes more than anything else, though her full arm tats were sexy as fuck, as was her blue-platinum colored hair. But those eyes. He noticed them right away. Like a Disney princess crossed with a silent screen star.

Bette Davis eyes.

Before long, he started timing his writing sessions around her schedule, which he quickly figured out. And then she was gone. And so was his writing.

He kept returning to the scene of the crime, hopeful that she was perhaps out of town. But after a couple of weeks, he finally asked of one of her co-workers if she still worked there. She didn’t. And nobody knew where she had gone. Desperate, he asked for her last name. Though reluctant, he gave it to her.

And then he looked her up on Facebook.

This is how stalkers are made…

He figured that she probably wouldn’t accept anyway. But then she did. And then he immediately wrote her a note to thank her for adding him. A quick scan of her profile made him realize that she was an artist! And it just so happened that he was seekng an artist to collaborate with. So in the guise of innocence, he asked if she would be willing to meet to discuss a possible partnership. She obliged and he met her over drinks.

They hit it off and though she seemed genuinely interested in his project, she told him she had a lot on her plate and probably wouldn’t be able to get to it for quite a awhile, especially with the hours that she was pulling at the new distillery downtown.

They remained in touch, sharing favorite music and movies and random thoughts (mostly his). His willingness to share his work inspired her to want to share hers. Whenever he hit a roadblock in his own work, he would ask her to send along some of arts to give him the creative boost he needed. Though she was highly guarded when it came to exhibition of her work, she admitted that he was giving her the courage she needed to finally showcase her work to a broader audience. It was as symbiotic a relationship that a writer and artist could ask for. He went as far as to tell that she was his muse – something he had never told any other muse in life. He felt comfortable enough to share this because he got the sense she felt the same way about him (though, by no means did he expect her to refer to him as her muse).

“You’re the reason I’ve been able to write these past few months.”

She was flattered.

After a few months had passed, the feeling didn’t fade like was so often the case with his muses. In fact, the feeling only intensified. He hadn’t felt this complete in ages and even his domestic situation was more tolerable that he could remember.

It certainly wasn’t the first time he had fallen for a muse. He had crushes on most. But had a muse ever fallen for him? He didn’t think so. And he wasn’t fully convinced she had fallen for him. But he liked to pretend that she did.

She occupied his every waking moment. And even infiltrated his dreams. Every goddamn thing was better. He writing was better. He jacked off better. He slept better. He woke up better.

Though he was well aware that he had already developed feelings that went beyond the superficial muse-crush, the tide really began to turn one particular night when, while writing under the influences of bourbon, she posted a new profile pic that sent his pathetic heart aflutter. Once again, it all came down to her eyes – like the twin beacons of a lighthouse, guiding a wayward sailor back to safety. Or, was it a siren, leading him to a rocky shore? Either way, he couldn’t resist the turning tide that this picture stirred within his soul.

He tried to resist making a fool of himself, but bourbon was clearly in charge.

“That is a fucking amazing pic of you,” he wrote.

He stared at phone, waiting for a response. Several minutes had passed and there was no response. And then a few minutes later:

“You think so?” she replied back, following by three blushing emoticons.

“It’s torture, quite actually,” he responded.

“What do you mean?”

“I don’t know.”

“Yes, you do. Say it scaredy cat! What do you mean by torture?”

            Stay cool. Don’t show all of your cards.

“Figure it out,” he wrote back.

“I think I got it,” she wrote with a wink.

“As though you didn’t already know.”

“You totally wanna snitch my face.”


He quickly looked up ‘snitch’ in the Urban Dictionary, assuming that it was lingo that never made it onto his radar. They were 15 years apart, after all.

Millenials and their hipster lingo…

“Smooch,” she corrected.

“You got me,” he wrote, then added: “Surprised? Disturbed?”

“Not surprised and not disturbed either.”



“You must get this a lot,” he said.

“No. Not at all actually.”

“Well, you should. And not from old, desperate men like this smitten douche.”

“You’re not old and desperate. And I wish I did, then I wouldn’t be young and single.”

“Embrace it. It won’t be that way forever. In the meantime, I will toil in misery when my muse posts such beautiful pics. A face I can’t snitch.”

“Who says you can’t?”


“You won’t try to snitch my face. You’re too scared.”

“Dare me,” he said with a bravado he never felt before. One thing he knew, if she were here in person, he would not be so brave.

“Dare,” she wrote.

“Tonight,” he suggested.

“I’m working.”

“You can come out to my car. You get breaks, right? I dare YOU.”


“Is that a yes?” he asked.

“I don’t know yet…”

“Then how can I prove that I can come through on your date? Or, are you… a scaredy cat yourself?”

“I might be.”

“Well, you can’t stop me from coming in for a drink.”

“No, I definitely can’t stop you from getting a drink.”

“What are you afraid of?


“For the record, this conversation has already inspired a story in my head. It’s up to you to help me decide if it will be fiction. Or memoir.”

“What would it be about?” she asked.


“You can’t just say what you’re thinking, can you?”


“Scaredy cat.”

“You don’t really want me to say what I am thinking, do you?

“Kind of.”

“Ok….you remind me of a Disney princess, but created by Tim Burton.”

No response came. He must have totally freaked her out.

And that’s how one loses a muse…

But a minute later:

“That is the most beautiful compliment in the entire world. I love that so much.”


“See you tonight.”

“We’ll see about that,” she wrote, followed by a wink emoticon.

“Now pretend that this conversation never happened,” he added.

“Ok, conversation disappeared.”

But the conversation did happen. And it didn’t disappear. Just like that, a dare beyond his scope of rational understanding was on. From the start, he knew it was less about proving her wrong, but more about proving himself right.

What he was most surprised about was his complete lack of guilt. A virtual muse is one thing. But his muse and reality were beginning to merge.

His lack of guilt probably had a lot to with the fact that his wife hadn’t let him “snitch” her in three years. Nor, hug her. Nor, give a shit about his writing.

The only obstacle? A mounting snowstorm. Staying off the roads would have been the smart thing to do. But his heart had become stronger than his intellect. This was nothing new. It was probably why he became a writer.

En route, he decided to stop for a couple shots of whiskey to calm his nerves. He forgot how much anxiety dating caused

When the effect of the whiskey took root, he headed back out into the snow, which had intensified. Fortunately, he was less than a mile away.

He parked in the lot behind the bar. A good snitching spot for sure. He debated whether he should message her so she could come out to him, or if he should just walk in. He decided to show up in person. It felt like the more gentlemanly thing to do.

He entered the nearly empty bar (others were smart enough to stay in). A video of a burning fireplace was projected on to a giant screen, as a disinterested DJ spun trip-hop Christmas music.

He headed to the bar, which was tended by a woman who clearly wasn’t his muse.

“What can I get you?”

“Is Elisa here?”

“She’s in the back. I can get her…”

“No rush. I can wait.”

“Can I get you a drink?”

“A gin and tonic, please.”

He knew that he really shouldn’t be drinking at all. Not with the treacherous drive looming ahead. Combined with the amount already consumed.

Halfway through his drink, Elisa appeared from the back – as though she had emerged right out of the pic that got this all started in the first place.

“You made it,” she said with a warm smile.


“Yes, actually. I thought for sure you’d chicken out. Especially with the weather.”

“Oh, is it bad?” he said with a sly grin, before adding: “So, do you have a break coming up?”

“Actually, yes.”

They both stared at one another awkwardly, which was punctuated when he

proceeded to down the rest of his drink.

“Want another?” the bartender asked.

“I think I’m all set. Thank you.”

“Leaving so soon?” Elisa asked with a sly smile.

He paid, then turned to her and said:

“Just wanted to say hi,” he said. “Heading out to my car now.”

Elisa nodded. He couldn’t interpret what that nod conveyed exactly, but he hoped they were both on the same page.

He then headed out into a snowfall so dense, it was as though he were trapped in a snow globe.

He started his car, then cranked up the heat to make sure that if she joined him, it would be warm enough for her. He put on the Christmas station, then stared at the gigantic snowflakes coating his windows.

Five minuets passed and he began to realize that he was probably just wasting his time. Just as hew as about to pull away, a figure emerged out of the back entrance of the distillery. He wasn’t certain, but as soon as the figure headed toward his car, he knew.

She approached the passenger side door and entered, fully bundled up. Dean Martin’s cover of “Baby, It’s Cold Outside” began to play, which was only fitting since Dean and Frank was who he listened to more than anything else when he wrote. His story was writing itself!

“Hi,” she said through a nervous smile.

“Hello,” he said, lacking the confidence that got him this far this evening.

What would Deano do? He’d nail her in the backseat of his car, that’s what he would do.

But whom was he kidding? He was no Deano.

He nervously looked directly into her magical doe eyes and was surprised he didn’t look away. They remained locked in a gaze, amidst the silence of calm anticipation.

He removed his gloves, put a finger under her chin, then proceeded to give her what he planned to be just a gentle kiss on the corner of her mouth. He didn’t want to push it, but then he got the immediate sense that she wanted more. In fact, he didn’t have much of a choice. When their lips withdrew, he continued staring into the Disney princess eyes of his muse, entombed in a snow-covered vault. A snowglobe within a snowglobe.

“I gotta get back to work,” she said with a smile, before she got out of the car.

“Goodnight,” she said, blowing him a kiss.

She closed the door behind her and headed back inside. Midway, she stopped to wave one last time.

He stared out his snow-covered windshield. A streetlamp cast an orange, burning glow through it. In that moment, it was the beautiful thing he had ever seen.

But it was time to turn to reality.

He grabbed his scraper and headed outside to brush all the snow off.

As he drove away, he felt a deep contentment he couldn’t recall ever feeling at any point in his adult life. For once, he didn’t care what the future would bring. Nor, did the past really matter anymore. The only thing that mattered was the present and a full awareness of what his next piece of writing would be about.

In the end, that’s it was all he ever really needed. And all that fucking mattered.







The Wasted Drink

She didn’t want to go. Then again, she never did. But as usual, she gave in to peer pressure. It wasn’t because she was weak. It was because deep down, she knew her friends had her best interest at heart.

When you’re an introvert, being surrounded by extroverted friends is both a blessing and a curse. It’s a blessing in the sense that she could sit back and let them do all the planning and talking. It was a curse in that it was very easy to disappear into a social void. At least, that’s what past history taught her. So why should tonight be any different?

Emily remained hopeful that somehow, her friends savvy social graces could somehow rub off on her. An ‘extrovertism’ so to speak.

Yet, the more she tried to step out of her self-imposed cave, the more her anxiety would rise and the deeper into her cave she would withdraw. It didn’t help that week after week, she had to watch as her friends got the attention that she wanted.

Of course, it didn’t help that that her Jackie and Melissa were prettier than she was (at least in her mind…and – she assumed – the minds of most men on the flirtation front). Sure, there were plenty of guys that she would have gladly passed on, but it sure would be nice to have the option to pass on them. Every now and then at least. The only problem was, nobody ever noticed her. She didn’t exactly make herself available.

If there was a silver lining, it was that not being noticed was preferable to being noticed and then passed over.

She didn’t expect tonight to be any different. In fact, her confidence level felt even lower than usual. Her face felt more oily than normal. And she felt bloated from the burger she at dinner, while her friends naturally ate a salad. She tried not to dwell on it. If she really wanted a salad, she should have ordered a goddam salad.

If it were totally up to her, she would have been content to order carry out and watch a movie – with friends, or alone. In fact, she would have been more than fine with alone. Where she didn’t have to watch people eat a salad

But once again, she succumbed to peer pressure, convinced it was for her own good.


He had every reason to believe that this weekend would follow the same script as any other one:

Slight buzz after half a drink.

False confidence.

Chickening out.

Diminished buzz.


Further loss of confidence.

And the acceptance that he was a hopeless romantic failure who never stood a chance.

Before he ended the night by jacking himself off to sleep.

He was growing tired of the same, tired weekend formula. His friends, Eric and Billy, on the other hand, lived for this. Of course, it helped that they were the ones who had all the fun.

Jimmy, on the other hand, was getting sick of getting his hopes up, only to get nowhere. In fact, he had stopped getting his hopes up months ago. Now, he simply went through the motions. Continuing to live life on the outside, looking in.

It wasn’t rocket science. But it certainly felt like it. How hard could it be to approach a member of the opposite sex and strike up a friendly conversation?

As far as Jimmy was concerned, he might have well have attempted to climb Mt. Everest as far as was concerned. He probably had a better chance at doing that.

Following each weekend, he didn’t need to recover from a hangover, but from shame and regret. He had neither the looks (in his mind, at least), nor the charm (again, in his mind) necessary to make things happen.

Yet, sure enough, halfway through the week – right at the point where he felt like he was never going back – he would slowly feel his confidence rebuilding. And next thing he knew, Friday would come and he would set out for another night of inevitable failure.

After last weekend – when he felt especially down in the dumps about his future prospects, he convinced himself that he would take a weekend off. And then – and only if he felt the urge to get back into the game – he would just relax and enjoy his time out with his buddies, rather than putting unnecessary pressure on himself to work up the courage to talk to a stranger. If it was destined to happen, it would. But as much as part of him believed it, life was not a movie. People do not meet cute that easily.

Or do they?

Perhaps, if he weren’t such a hopeless romantic, he would just take things as they came. The problem was, nothing ever came. (Not counting himself into a wadded up ball of Kleenex).

The following weekend, he stuck to his guns and stayed home Friday night. On Saturday, he ventured to an early screening at the art house on Saturday. His friends tried with all their might to change his mind. They nearly convinced him to join their ranks. But instead, he headed home after the movie, only to stop at Blockbuster along the way to rent Reservoir Dogs for the umpteenth time.

Why don’t I just buy it to own?

The following weekend, however, the tide finally began to turn.


“What do you have to lose?” Jackie asked.

“My dignity?” Emily responded.

“That’s the last thing you will lose!” Melissa said. “Oh, wait. That’s virginity, I’m sorry.”

“Shut up!”

“Get me drunk enough” Jackie said.

“She doesn’t even have the balls to say ‘fuck you’ when I most deserve it.”

“You know I don’t use fuck,” Emily replied.

“Or fuck in general,” Melissa said.


“Why can’t you just try to have fun?” Jackie asked.

“Because I’d rather be home. On my couch. Eating ice cream. And watching Disney movies.”

“Like any other night.”

“Because maybe I like it.”

“Don’t you want to find someone to do those things with?”
“I have someone. It’s called my cat.”

“Oh, my God, you are so pathetic…” Melissa said just loud enough to be heard.

‘I heard that.”

“It was meant to be heard.”

They entered the The Wasted Drink – a throwback lounge with more red on the interior than it knew what to do with.

They headed to the couches in the back lounge area. Jackie and Melissa sat next to one another. Emily sat in a chair by herself across from them. Anything that could be done to make her feel like an outcast.

Emily sank into her chair as Frank Sinatra crooned.

Love was in the air.


“What do you have to lose” Billy asked.

“My pride. My dignity…”

“Your virginity?”
“You know I already lost that.”

“Teddy bears don’t count.”

“That was just one time. And I don’t count that.”

“I don’t understand why you can’t just relax and have a nice time.

“Because, I just want to be home. On my couch. Drinking beer. And watching porn.”

“You do that every other night,” Eric said.

“Which is why going out with us is so important,” Billy said. “Otherwise, we’re all just losers!”

“Well, we’re still losers,” Eric said. “Just losers at bars, rather than losers at home.”

“What if I actually like sitting at home?” Jimmy said. “Did you ever stop to think about that?”

“Don’t you want to get laid?” Eric asked.

“You know that’s not how I’m wired.”

“Should we find you a gay bar?”

“No, I mean. It’s just not in my DNA to have random hook up with some chick at a bar. I’m not a one-night stand kind of guy.”

“That’s obvious,” Eric said.

“Look, man. Nobody said you need to have a one-night stand. But when I said getting laid, I wasn’t saying you have to get laid tonight. I meant, find someone that you get to know, go on a few dates with, then get laid. In other words, finding a girlfriend. Don’t you want a girlfriend?”

“What about you guys?

“We just want to get laid,” Billy said. “And you saw what happened when Eric had a girlfriend. It nearly ruined him.”

“It actually did,” Eric retorted.

“Okay, fine. I will do it,” Jimmy said, giving in.

“Do what?”

“Talk to a girl. Will that make you happy?”

“Fuck yeah!” Eric said with unnecessary enthusiasm.
“Your need to live vicariously through me is very disturbing,” Jimmy said.

They entered the bar. Although he had no say in the manner, it was the one bar he actually liked. He as a sucker for all things vintage. Though, in all honesty, if it were completely up to him, he would have much preferred a coffee shop. His home away from home. Where he went to write. He needed stimuli around him. Silence was a distraction.

And he knew that one thing as certain: silence was the last thing he was going to get tonight.


“Hello, ladies,” a voice said.

Emily rolled her eyes, already assuming it was yet another jackass coming to flirt with her friends while she sat on the sidelines.

“What can I get you to drink?”

It wasn’t a jackass. It was a waiter. But a waiter who looked like he’d be a jackass if he were off shift.

Her friends ordered a Stoli & Cranberry. She remained undecided.


It was always a struggle. She didn’t do enough drinking to have a favorite drink yet. In fact, she didn’t like alcohol all too much to begin with, much to the consternation of her friends.

“Do you have Mosquato?” Emily finally asked.


“You mean, Moscato?” Melissa asked.

‘Yes. Moscato. Which is what I said.”

“Actually, you said Mosqauto,” the waiter said in a tone that sounded equally polite and condescending.

“Oh, sorry. Moscato, yes.”

“I’ll be right back,” the waiters said with a warm smile.

He sure was cute, but aside from not being quit her type, he was also a bit out of her league.

As the waiter walked away, her friends laughed.

“You might as well have ordered Kool-Aid,” Jackie said.

“Just be glad I ordered anything at all.”

“Oh, we’re honored you are drinking in our presence.”


As Jackie and Melissa carried on their conversation, Emily spotted a good-looking guy talking to a nearby girl at a nearby table.


When would that ever be her?

She watched as the guy took the girl by the hand and walked away.

“How come guys hardly hit on me?” she finally asked.

“Because you don’t make yourself open.”

“What do you mean?

“You do nothing to draw attention to yourself,” said Melissa.

“That’s not her style,” said Jackie.

“Why do you want to be hit on anyway?” asked Jackie. “You hate aggressive guys.”

“I wouldn’t mind it every once in awhile. At least long enough to get tired of it.”

The waiter delivered the drinks.

“You can start by not being such a goody two-shoes,” Melissa told her.

“I’m not.”

“You are. And men detect shit like that. Men are turned off by women who act holier than though,” Melissa said.

“Maybe the men you get,” Emily retorted.

“You guys, come on—” Jackie said.

“When was the last time you’ve been on a date?”

“I don’t know…that has nothing to do with anything. I’ve been busy with school, work –”

“And being a good little good two shoes.”

“Dammit, I’m not a goody two shoes.”

“Just look how much you’re struggling to finish just one drink.”

“We just got them!”

Melissa and Jackie pointed to their nearly completed drinks.

“Well, I’m just glad I’m not an alcoholic.”


“Is there a reason you’re ganging up on me?”
“We just want to help, that’s all,” said Jackie.

“I’ll prove to both of you that I’m no goody two shoes.”.

“How?” asked Melissa.



“What can I get you guys?” the bartender asked the three amigos at the bar.

Eric ordered an Old Fashioned; Billy a Guinness.

“You?” the bartender asked Jimmy.

“Still deciding.”

“Dude, come on!” Eric barked.

He ordered his default drink of choice:

“Umm, how about a Strawberry Cosmopolitan. Please.”

Eric and Billy both laughed.

“What’s so funny?”

“Are you fucking kidding me?” Eric asked.

“You know I like the fruity drinks.”

“Can you at least try?” Eric asked.

“Try what?”

“Nevermind,” Eric said.

And then he spotted her. And the whole world came to a grinding halt – or, so it seemed.

There she was. Across the room. Sitting in a chair by herself like princess in a throne. It felt as though she were placed there just for him and him alone. Of course, he knew this meant nothing. Because if past history as any indication, he sure as fuck wasn’t going to do something about it. He continued to stare nonetheless.

“Yo, Jimmy!” Eric said.

“Watch yourself, guy,” said the bartender as he attempted to serve Jimmy his drink.

“”What is wrong with you?” asked Billy.

Jimmy snapped out of his daze and noticed the fruity concoction placed beneath him, which featured an enormous strawberry that seemed too huge to be real.

“Nice fruit salad,” Billy said.

“Speaking of fruit…” Eric added.

Jimmy was too distracted by his new crush to notice the taunts. Though he had no shortage of crushes, he had never been so fixated on someone before. It felt like a magnetic force. Like a moth to a flame. Like a –

“Hello, McFly!” Eric said, running his hand pas Jimmy’s face. “Who in the hell are you staring at?
“An angel.”

“An angel?” asked Billy.

“Yeah. See those girls over there?


“The one on the left.”

Eric and Billy both looked.

“Go talk to her,” Billy said.

“Are you serious?”

“Of course I’m serious! Why wouldn’t I be?”

“Why do you always make talking to a girl sound like climbing Everest?”

“Well, for me, it is.”

“Maybe it’s time you reach the peak,” Billy said.

“The only peak he’ll be reaching tonight is the peak between his legs,”

Eric retorted.

“Let’s see if he can prove us wrong,” Billy said.

Jimmy tried to stifle his annoyance. Though there was a small part of him that appreciated their effort to find true love, there was something unwelcome and invasive about it. Not to mention a tad selfish – at least, that’s how he saw it.

“What makes you think tonight would be any different than last week?” asked Jimmy. “Or the week before that, or the week and five years before that? I suck at this.”

“Because this is a different week. The past no longer matters.”

Jimmy didn’t say a word. But he didn’t resist, either.

He just kept on dreaming.

Hoping, praying, that she would notice him back. After all, if he felt this drawn to her, there was no way it could be a one-way street.



“I think the guy at the bar is staring at me,” Melissa said.

“Stare back,” Jackie said.

“He’s not my type. He’s kind of impish. His friends are cute, though.”

“What do you think, Emily?” Melissa asked an oblivious Emily, struggling to nurse baby sips of her drink.

“Which one?”

“The one looking at us,” Melissa said.

Emily glanced toward the bar.

“Nobody is looking.”

“The dorky one on the end.”

“I think he’s kind of cute,” Emily said.

“I think he’s checking you out,” Jackie teased.

“Yeah, right. I’m sure he’s interested in you guys.”

“You’re probably right,” Melissa said.

Of course I’m right. Because things like this don’t happen to me. Why should tonight be any different?


Jimmy obsessively stared at his new muse, growing deeper into a trance.

Did she even notice? Do I want her to notice?

            Of course I do!

But only so I could go curl into a ball in a corner somewhere in embarrassment?

The endless loop.

She glanced in his direction and Jimmy quickly looked away. As soon as she stopped looking, Jimmy stared at her again.

“I think I want to talk to that girl,” Jimmy said.

“Then go fucking talk to her!” said Billy. “Stop talking about it.”

“I’m just not good at approaching strangers.”

“They’re only strangers until you meet them.”

Jimmy continued to stare, only to be brought out of his trance with a slap to the back of the head, courtesy of Eric.

“You’re going to freak her out!”

“Let him stare!” Billy commanded. “At least he isn’t bitching anymore.”

“If you ask me, I think her friends are far hotter,” Eric said.

“She’s more my type.”

“Of course she is,” Billy said.

“What does that mean?”

“Nothing. It just means that you are attracted to the plain-Janes. Nothing wrong with that. Just stating a fact. And the fact that we are actually having this conversation is proof why you need to get off your sorry little ass and talk to her!”

Eric suddenly stood up:

“I hereby propose a toast,” Eric said, lifting up his glass.

“Oh oh, here we go again,” remarked Billy.

Jimmy goes through the motions and lifts up his glass, keeping one eye on his dream girl, totally unaware of the fact that he is spilling some of his drink.

“Dude, you’re spilling,” Billy said, tipping Jimmy’s glass upright, as Eric proceeded with the speech:

“May our good friend and personal whipping boy finds his balls tonight.”

“Here, here,” said Billy.

Jimmy goes through the motions and clinks his glass, keeping his eyes fixated on his muse, as more of his fruit punch leaked out.

“He’s already whipped and it’s only been five minutes,” said Eric.

Jimmy remained in his own little fantasy world, as Eric and Billy engaged in conversation.

After a few moments, he grabbed his drink and stood up.

“Holly shit. He’s going for it,” Eric said.

But he wasn’t. Instead, Jimmy sat down on the other side of his friends.

“What are you doing?”

“I wanted a clearer view.”

“Dude, just go over there!” Billy said.

“I want to…but I—”

“Can’t?” Billy interjected.

Jimmy nodded.

“Fuck that,” Eric said. “It really isn’t that difficult. You just have to walk over there.”

“What do I say, “Oh, hi, I’m Jimmy?”
‘Umm, yeah, that might be a good place to start,” said Eric.

“And then what?”

“Say whatever comes naturally,” said Eric.

“I don’t have a natural state.”

“You do: Awkwardly endearing. But first, you have to walk over there,” said Billy.

“And leave your fucking gay ass drink behind.”


Emily took a small sip of her still mostly full drink and flashed a nervous glance toward three amigos at the bar. The cute boy was staring at her once again. She quickly looked way.

If only I knew how to flirt.

Though he made her nervous and made her heart race, she felt extremely flattered. The only problem was, she still wasn’t convinced he was looking at her. This made more sense in her mind and was certainly consistent with past experience – whether real, or imagined.

Dear God, may I be wrong.

At least she wasn’t thinking about being home anymore.

“You know what would be neat?” Emily said.

“If he would come over here.”

“The imp?” Melissa asked.

“He looks sweet,” Jackie replied.

“He looks like a boy band reject,” Melissa said.

“He’s cute, though,” Jackie said.

“Jackie, will you go talk to him for me?”

“What is this, the tenth grade?”

“I don’t want him to think I’m a slut.”

“How would that make you slut?” Jackie said.

“He’s a guy. He’s probably hoping you are a slut,” Melissa added.

“Is it possible to get going and rent a movie or something?” Emily said “This is turning into a nightmare.”

“Only you would turn an opportunity like this into an nightmare,” Jackie said. “The only way this would be a nightmare is if you blow your chance.”

“No, I’m good. I just want to leave.”

“We need at least one more round before we consider leaving,” Melissa said, as she waved toward the water.


He raced over.

“Ready for another round?”

“Of course!” Melissa said.

“I’m all set.” Emily said.

“Fuck that. Bring her another Cosmo.”

“No, I’m fine. Really.” Emily insisted.

“Don’t worry, Mommy and Daddy won’t be mad. They know you’re in good hands.”

“It’s not that, it’s just … I’d really rather not puke my guts out tonight. I have to get up early to study tomorrow.

“Ignore her,” Melissa instructed the waiter, before she turned to Emily:

“If you puke, I promise to personally clean it up,” Melissa said. “Now down what’s left of your first one.”

“I don’t want—“

“Down it!”

Emily began to “down” her drink through a straw.

Melissa pulled the straw right out of her mouth and raised the glass to Emily’s mouth.

“I said down it!” Emily gagged, nearly spitting her drink out. Somehow, she kept it down. She then grabbed her strawberry and took a big to chase down the liquor.

It would take much more than that.


Jimmy took a big chunk out of his massive strawberry, as he continued to gaze at the girl of his dreams from behind his glass.

“I figured it out!” he suddenly proclaimed on the precipice of an epiphany.

“Dude, you have strawberry in your teeth,” Eric pointed out.

Jimmy licks it off.

“You figured what out?” Billy asked.

“What I’m going to do.

“Talk to her.”


Jimmy stood up, then immediately sat right back down.

“Forget it.”

“C’mon! If you don’t do it yourself, I’ll drag your ass over there.” Eric threatened.

“She’ll end up falling for you.”

“I am definitely not her type.”

“Okay, fine.” Jimmy stood back up and hesitated, before he sat back down.

“What are you doing?” Billy barked.

“I’ll just regret it.”

“You’ll regret it more if you don’t do it.”

Jimmy reflected on this though. He was right. The time had come. He looked toward her.

Jimmy stood up.

“Carpe diem, right?”
“Crape what?” Eric said.

“Shut up,” Billy said to Eric. He then put a hand on Jimmy’s shoulder, looked him in the eyes and proclaimed: “You got this.”

Jimmy nodded, took a deep breath, took a big sip of his drink and took another look at the girl.

Jimmy approached the waiter, who was heading toward the girls.

“Excuse me…”

“What’s up?” the waiter asked, with a tinge of annoyance.

Jimmy pointed to his girl.

“The girl in the blue shirt up there. It’s on me.”

“Oh, okay. It’s $6.50.”

Jimmy took out his wallet. He has three dollars.

“Shit, hang on.”

Jimmy walked back to the bar.

“Can I borrow a couple bucks, please?”

“You have to be fucking kidding me,” Eric said, as Billy handed him some cash.

“Thanks,” Jimmy said, then quickly rushed over to the waiter.

“Sorry about that,” he said offering the cash.

“No problem. Anything you’d like me to say to her?”

Jimmy looked up.

“Umm, yeah. Just tell her I think she’s cute.”

“That’s it?”

Jimmy thought about it for a moment. Then nodded..

Is that the best you can fucking come up with?

            With his tail between his legs, Jimmy headed back to the bar, proclaiming: 

“Shit, shit, shit!”

Eric and Billy greeted him with high fives. Jimmy retreated to his bar stool and buried his face into his hands.

“Shit, shit. Fuck, fuck, fuckety fuck.”

“What’s wrong? You did it! Mission accomplished.”

“I feel so…dirty.”

“Because you bought a girl a drink? Dude, look, she’s flattered.”

Jimmy peered through his fingers as the waiter crouched down to explain the meaning of the drink.

“Stop being a pussy and enjoy the moment,” Eric said.

“Why didn’t I just go over there and talk to her?”

“That’s phase two,” Billy said. “You set the table. You’re well on your way.”

“Can we just leave now?”

“Hell no,” Eric commanded. “You started this story. Now fucking finish it.”


Emily was genuinely flattered. Things like this didn’t happen to her. They did in her mind, of course. But never in reality.

“Looks like somebody got their wish,” Jackie said.

“This is a joke, right? Like you guys are behind this?”

“Of course not,” Melissa said.

“Yeah, Emily,” Jackie began. “Didn’t you see us walk over and ask him to buy you a drink?” Jackie said.

“Should I go over there and thank him?”

“Naw, let him come over here. It’s only a matter of time.”


“Okay, at some point, you’re gonna have to go over there,” Billy told him.

“Like fucking now!” Eric said.

“They’re laughing at me.”

“They’re not laughing at you,” Billy said. “She’s flattered.”

“I’m just not equipped with the ability to approach girls. I’m the same way when I take medicine.”

“But sometimes, you have no choice but to take it.”

“But I do have a choice.”

“Not if we can help it,” Eric said.

“You can’t just force me to do something against my will.”
“We got you here, right?” Billy said.


“Now, listen to me. And listen to me good…” Eric began, before he continued.

“Look, I may not be the brightest crayon in the toolbox, but I do know this: you’ve been single way too long for a guy your age who has no physical deformities that keep him from picking up women. And I know how hard you’re trying not to be single. And the way not to be single is to get off your sorry little ass and work that girl like she’s your job.”

Jimmy reflected on this for a moment, but still couldn’t find it within himself to complete his mission.

“I’m sure she’s waiting for you to come over there,” Billy said.

If I go over there—“

When you go over there …”

“I’ll tell her the truth, that I never felt so stupid in my life and that I’ve never done anything like this before …”

“Don’t script things out,” Billy said. “Just go over there and whatever comes out of your mouth will come out like poetry out of a poet.”

“And if you’re lucky, she’ll do all the talking herself,” said Eric.

“”If she was really interested, wouldn’t she just come over here?”

“That’s not the natural order of things.”
“This isn’t 50 years ago…”

“That’s not the point.”

“How about we just leave?”

“And let us miss all the fun?” said Eric.

“Just go talk to her, man. You already got her attention. That’s half the battle.”

“And what do I do if I go over there, and her friends start cracking up in my face. Or what if she slaps me—?“

“If you don’t talk to her, I’m going to slap you myself.”

“This whole thing is a mistake.”

“The only mistake would be not talking to her. You had the courage to get this far…”

“My courage is in short supply.”


“You are way too insecure,” said Billy.

“I’m just not good at handling rejection.”

“You really are Marty McFly!” Eric asked.

“You have absolutely nothing to lose and everything to gain. And here’s the beauty of it,” said Billy. “You’ll never have to see her again.”

“I don’t think in those terms. Knowing my luck, I’ll end up working with her someday or something.”

“That’s your problem,” said Billy. “You think too much.”

“Take it from me,” Eric said. “Thinking won’t get your anywhere.”


Emily waited with dreadful anticipation, as she poked at the remains of her strawberry.

“Are you sure he isn’t waiting for me to go over and talk to him?” Emily asked.

“Positive,” said Jackie.

“And if he doesn’t come here, then he’s not worth your time.”

“The fact that he hasn’t come over here really makes me wonder if he was supposed to bring it to one of your guys,” Emily said.

“Why are you always so damn insecure?” Melissa asked. “And stop it with all the whining.”

‘I’m not whining!”

“Well, stop whatever it is you’re doing.”

“Take it easy on her,” Jackie said. “We were the same way once. Don’t you remember?”

“Yeah, like in middle school!”

“Just ignore her,” Jackie assured Emily. “It’s the alcohol talking.”

“Is he looking at me?” Emily asked.

She couldn’t bear to look.



“Is she staring at me?” Jimmy asked.

Eric and Billy looked over.

“No, but her hottie friends are,” Billy said.

“Will one of you please go over there with me?”

“I thought you were worried she would fall for one of us?” Eric reminded him.

“I changed my mind.”

“Well, so did I.”


“They’re all yours.”

“So you’re both just gonna sit here?”
“Yep,” Eric and Billy both said.

“Is she looking at me now?”

“Dude! Just go over there!”

“I need more time to think things through.”

“What the fuck is there to think about? “ Billy asked. “By the time you’re done thinking, she’ll be gone. Or some other guy will take over for you.”

“Bartender!” Eric shouted.

“What can I get you?” the bartender asked.

“Three shots of tequila, por favor!”

“Coming right up!”

“I don’t want any booze,” Jimmy said.

“Liquid courage, my friend,” Eric said.

“Not sure if this is a good idea,” Billy warned as the bartender lined up the shots.

“Of course it is!”

Eric moved the shots closer to Jimmy.

“Have at it!”

Jimmy reluctantly picked up a shot.

“Bottoms up.”

Jimmy took little baby sips until it was gone.


“What about you guys?”

“All yours, my man.”

“I can’t drink that much.”

“Drink them!” Eric commanded. “And no baby sips. Down that shit.”

Jimmy gave in and gagged his shots down like a child taking medicine.

“Thatta boy!” Eric said, offering a high five. Jimmy high fived him, still gagging on his shots.

“That wasn’t so bad, was it?” Billy asked.

Jimmy stood up and wobbled a bit, before proclaiming:

“Alright. The point of no return has arrived. Gentlemen, it’s been real.”

He then turned to face the music. And beelined it toward the girl of his dreams.


She could barely stand to watch. What was worse? Waiting for him to come? Or, bracing for his arrival?

What would she say?

What would she do?

She was about to find out.

Meanwhile, all she could do was squeeze Jackie’s arm for dear life.


And halfway there, he stopped on a dime and headed back to the bar like a puppy with his tail between his legs.

“What..the…fuck?” Eric said, throwing his arm in the air.

“I can’t do this. I’m not in my element.”

“What element?” Eric. “Get your ass back there and talk to her!”

“Jimmy, sit down a minute,” Billy said.

Jimmy did, wanting nothing more than to be home.

“Remember when we were in the fifth grade and I dragged you onto your first roller coaster?”

“Yeah, what about it?”

“Remember how you were literally in tears as we got to the final stretch of the line? You tried to escape, but I held you back.”

Jimmy laughed, reflecting on the memory.


“I had to force you into the car.”

“Dude, where are you going with this?” Eric said.

Billy ignored him.

“What was the first thing you said to me when the ride was over?”

Jimmy thought about it for a moment, then looked up at Sarah.

“Umm, I don’t know, ‘Can we go on it again?’”

“’Can we go on it again?’” Exactly! Well, my friend, we are in line for another ride! How quickly you forget how much fun the first time was.”

Jimmy nodded, then looked her way.


“Okay, what is this guy’s deal?” Emily fretted. “See the luck I have? Why would a guy buy me a drink and then completely ignore me afterwards?”

“Come to think of it, maybe it was intended for one of us.”

“What should I do?”

“Either wait patiently for him to come back to you, or do something about it yourself,” said Jackie.

“Maybe I should go talk to him. But what would I say?”

“Thanks for the drink?” Jackie said.

“Then what?”

“Wanna fuck?” Melissa said.

Emily thought about it, then slowly got up, before quickly sitting back down.

“Then what do I do?”

“Whatever comes natural to you. Everything else will take care of itself.”

Emily slowly stood up and headed toward the bar, as Jackie and Melissa watched with eager anticipation.

“He’s waiting for you.”


“Holy shit, she’s coming over here,” Jimmy said. He wasn’t sure if he was going to vomit. Or, shit his pants. Or, both.

And then she ended up walking right past Jimmy and down the hall to the restroom.

“So much for that,” Eric said.

Jimmy stood up.

“What are you doing?” Billy asked.

“I’m going to follow her,” Jimmy said.

“Into the bathroom?” Billy asked.

“No, I’ll wait outside the door.”

“What are you a dog? Eric asked. “I mean, isn’t that sorta creepy?”

“No, not as long as I immediately make it look like I was just on my way to the men’s room when she comes out. Or maybe, she’ll come out just as I pass by the door.”

“And then you’ll talk to her?”


“This is the moment you’ve been waiting for. Don’t fuck it up.”

Jimmy nodded, then slowly stood up and headed toward the restroom.

Emily & Jimmy

They both splashed water over their face, before they stared at themselves directly in the eye. If it weren’t for the music, they might have overheard each other.

Jimmy: “Positive visualization. You can do this. You have nothing to lose. So don’t be a jackass. She’s probably waiting for you right now. She’s all yours.”

He attempted to pop a Tic-Tac into his mouth, but dropped it in the sink. He considered still eating it, then threw it out and tried to grab another one out of the nearly empty container, which he had to bang against the counter to pry one loose.

Emily: “He’s just nervous. Like you. Give him some time. There’s a reason he ordered me that drink. And when he finally comes over, don’t say anything stupid. Just be yourself. Or, better yet, don’t be yourself.”

She popped an Altoid into her mouth.

They each gave themselves one last look in the mirror, fixed their hair, before noticing the graffiti on the wall:



Truer words had never been scrawled in a bar restroom.

With one deep breath, they left their temporary shelter behind and suddenly finding themselves standing face-to-face.

The rest of the world failed to exist. Or, maybe it was just frozen in time? In a moment that felt eternal, the two ill-fated lovers managed awkward smiles and a mumbled “hellos” as they did an awkward dance around one another, before he gestured for her to go first.

Rather than seizing the day, they both retreated back to their people with their tails between their legs.


“You are the sorriest son of a bitch that ever walked God’s green earth,” Eric said. “She practically landed in your fucking lap.”

“It was a dumb idea,” Jimmy said.

Billy grabbed Jimmy by the shoulders and started him square in the face:

“You better get over there right now. Because you know what’s going to happen? She’s going to leave, and you’ll regret this night for the rest of your life.”


“What the fuck was that?” Melissa said.

“I chickened out.”

“Yeah, no shit.”

“Do you think he’ll come back?” Emily asked.

“Not sure. But you can walk over there and take matters into your own hands,” Jackie said.

“Or else, we’re leaving,” Melissa added.


“I made progress tonight. Next time, I will take it a step further.”

“Bullshit,” Eric said.

Billy points to the girls. They were putting on their coats.

“Your angel is about to leave the building.”

“Next time.”

“You ruined our fucking night, dude!” Eric said.

“How did I ruin your night?”

He looked toward yet another one who was about to get away. Only this time, it felt far more finite.

And then she was gone.

“Let’s get the fuck out of here,” Eric said, throwing down a tip. Billy added another couple dollars, adding: “Cheap ass.”

His friends headed out ahead of him as he stayed behind in what could only be described as a state of shock. Devoid of all feeling. He never felt so numb.

Sure, he could have still chased after her if he wanted to, he couldn’t help but feel that the game was over. He was destined to be single forever. And he fucking deserved it.

Sure, he made progress tonight,

When it came to the opposite sex, progress could only be measured in small doses. Yet, he couldn’t help but feel he let his friends down – but more importantly, himself.

Just as he mustered the strength to leave, he spotted the fateful, wasted drink. Still mostly full.

Yet, he never felt more empty, especially after he stepped out into the subzero chill of a Michigan winter night. He could have sworn it was much warmer when they first arrived.


Emily sulked in the backseat of Jackie’s car, as Jackie and Melissa sang along to “Total Eclipse of the Heart.”

“Do you think it’s because I didn’t finish his drink?” Emily asked.

Her words fell upon deaf ears. She repeated herself, louder.

They still didn’t hear her. Just as well. There was nothing they could have told her that would have made her feel better. In fact, it would probably make her feel even worse.

In the cocoon of her deserved exile and isolation, she continued to reflect on what could have gone wrong. How did she let such an opportunity slip away? And why did he? If that drink was truly meant for her, why did he throw away a perfect opportunity? Again, the question remained: was it a mistake? Was the drink was intended for Melissa or Jackie? As much as this made sense in her mind, another theory suddenly came to her: he was just like her. She put herself in his shoes and saw herself totally doing the same thing if the roles were reversed. And suddenly, her anger towards him turned into mutual sorrow over opportunity lost.

Before fate intervened on her behalf.

Jimmy & Emily

Jimmy stood at the corner of an empty intersection, waiting for the light to turn at the empty intersection as his friends waited across the street for him.

“Dude, you can cross!” Billy shouted.

“It’s a red light!” Jimmy shouted back.

His inability to take chances had no limits.

Better safe than sorry.

Fuck it.

Just as he was about to cross, a car pulled up at the light.

He suddenly found himself staring directly into the eyes of missed opportunity.

Was fate really giving him a second chance?

But a second chance at what? Making things right? Or, another chance to fuck up?

The two star-crossed wannabe lovers stared at one another, frozen in time, spanning all dimensions of time and space. And despite feeling like they were standing in eternity, it was all over in the blink of an eye.

It would be this very moment they would think about every day for the rest of their life in some shape or form. In fact, there wasn’t a day that passed that they didn’t think of one another.

It was imprinted into the very fabric of their being and soul.

In the days and even weeks the followed, there was the sharp sting of deep regret. Over time, the regret would remained a dim echo – with varying degrees of intensity. There was rarely a time when they were out in public when they didn’t keep one eye open for one another. It wasn’t even a conscious act. It was just part of their DNA. They both wondered if they did spot one another, would they even act on it? Or fall into the same trap? Only time would tell.

Though they promised themselves that this night would mark a lesson learned, it wasn’t the last time for either. In fact, their single years were a broken record collection of moments such as this. A greatest hits collection of missed connections and romantic failings.

Their mutual burden to carry.

The light turned green. As the car drove away, they each waved goodbye.

No longer frozen in place, Jimmy slowly crossed toward his impatient friends.

Meanwhile, Emily stared out the rear window as Jimmy disappeared into a black void as they each left the empty intersection behind them.

Along with an eternal sense of “what if?”

What if?

What if?

What if….

Published in:

Mid-American Fiction Review

If You Need Anything…

“If you need anything, just let me know…”

He never turned down the opportunity to say this to a family member, friend, or acquaintance in need – which was surprisingly more often than he cared to admit. Though the passing of a loved one was the most common used of this phrase, opportunities presented themselves in all walks of life. He sometimes slipped and said it when it wasn’t even necessary or relevant. It had become that much of a habit.

But each time he muttered it, there was an underlying, dark little secret: he had no desire to do anything for anyone. In fact, if push came to shove, he knew he never follow through with it. As a result, it was only a matter of time before he was exposed for being the fraud that he was. He was surprised that no one had taken him up on his offer yet.

In the meantime, he got the satisfaction of offering a goodwill gesture…but with minimum output on his part. Despite this awareness, he still couldn’t help but say it. It helped that there was a low risk that anyone would actually take him up on his offer. (How often does anyone actually take someone up on this offer?)

As much as he knew he should have quit while he was ahead, sure enough, the next time the opportunity presented itself, the words fell right out of his mouth: “If you need anything, just let me know.”

And once again, he would get away with it. Deep down, he knew that eventually, the law of averages would work against him.

It was his biggest fear.

Vampire Style: An Essay

Years ago, I dated a vampire. Things started out very well. We had a lot in common, despite the 586 age gap between us. But she certainly looked good for her age.

And though she could only go out at night, it gave us plenty of time to snuggle during the daylight hours… as long as the shades were pulled. Good thing I was a night owl, anyway! Though it sucked that we couldn’t do daytime outdoor activities (like picnics under the summer sun, or trips to the zoo) we made up with moonlight picnics in the park. We also attended the annual Zoo After Hours event. They served cocktails!). The important thing was, we were in love. And we were happy.

At first, I had to get past the fact that the number of partners she had far exceeded my own personal resume, I just had to remind myself that she had been around much longer than me. Once I did the math, I realized she had averaged less than one partner a year. And then I no longer worried about it. Besides, her experience paid off between the. She liked to play rough – especially as far was biting concerned. Hickies are one thing, but for obvious reasons, I had to put an end to that before things got too far out of hand. The consequences would have been too severe.

And once she started talking about being together forever, I have to admit – I sort of freaked out. This was about six months into our relationship. And that was really when things began to turn.

When she first brought it up, I made it very clear that I would need more time to think it over (even though I knew deep down, I would never change my mind). I had never been in a relationship quite like this before and didn’t want to rush into anything. For awhile (at least), we both agreed to just enjoy the present. No relationship is perfect, but in case, the good things far outweighed the bad. And for a few months, we both seemed to be on the same page about this and things were relatively smooth sailing. But soon enough, the topic of forever was brought up again. After she dropped numerous hints – and soon enough – fanged threats, I knew the time had come to cut her loose.

It was certainly fun while it lasted and, of course, there are plenty of other fish in the sea. And plenty of life left to live. Especially as far as she was concerned.