It was six o’clock, and something wasn’t right.

Today was a Wednesday, so far as could be recalled. Wednesday. The middle of the week. Closer to the end than the middle at this point, you could say, at this late hour.

And yet, something wasn’t right.

Usually, at this time on a Wednesday, the dining room would be a flurry of activity. Cling cling clang. Thud thump thump. Plates and glasses would fall onto the table. Knives and forks would liberate themselves, and prepare for battle. Bzzzzzz, bzzzzzz, bzzzzz! Once in a while, the smoke alarm would even go off. Delicious smells would waft room to room, or so one might expect.

Six o’ two. The ticking of the clock was a thunderous roar through the silence. By now, the main course would enter the room, triumphantly carried as if it were a masterpiece. Not that it was anything special. But they looked so forward to it.

Four minutes past. The smells rang like a dinner bell, summoning children from the farest reaches of the house. Rushing into the room, and eagerly circling the table — sometimes giggling, sometimes yelling, and sometimes fighting, but always brought together by their hunger. At least, on a normal day.

But not today. Today was different. Something was amiss. It was six minutes past, and something wasn’t right.

Last one to the table has to bring the ketchup, they’d always shout. Inevitably, the last one to the table would forget. They became the first one up from the table. One might imagine that someone would make it part of the routine to bring the ketchup with them. But, it already was. Going back for the ketchup wasn’t necessarily a bad thing. It gave someone a chance to make an entrance. A grand entrance, or a sheepish one, or maybe even an unnoticed one, if the dinner conversation had already begun. But nevertheless. Many relished the opportunity.

There was no grand entrance for the ketchup today, though, and none for the bearer of the ketchup, either. It was ten minutes past, and the ketchup was already on the table. There it had sat since the day prior, next to some dishes, and some glasses. Food half-eaten, and water half-drank, and all left behind. Abandoned. Forgotten relics of a dinner past. Was someone coming back for them? That wasn’t known.

But something wasn’t right.

Donnnnnng. A single chime. Half past the hour. The end of dinner. But there was no dinner to end. Nobody left to clear the plates. Nobody to shuffle neatly into the living room, and nobody to shirk the dishwashing. Just an old clock remained behind. An old clock, and a bottle of ketchup.

Thursday was right around the corner.

With swift, deliberate motions, he moved to the back of the car. The trunk was already open; he must’ve already unlatched it. The routine was getting too familiar. Pull car up to curb. Reach down, pop trunk. Turn off car. Grab keys and get out. Blah, blah, blah. It was boring enough doing it, without having to think about it, too.

He looked up. He was already standing in front of the apartment building. It was a cold, gray granite, made sickly green by the erratic flicker of a nearby light. His gloved fist clenched tightly around the handle of the briefcase.

“The winds of change blow tepid through your life,” he recited, in a sort of monotone. It was his fortune. Splotchy red ink tossed onto some thin, cheap paper, and stuffed inside of a stale cookie. When he first saw it earlier that day, he’d just assumed that its’ author had a loose grip on the English language. Now, he was having his doubts. He made a mental note to look up the word tepid when he got back home.

Inside the cold, gray granite building was a cold, gray granite world. A world without primer, apparently. “This is depressing.” He stared at an apartment door. It was old, and wooden. Inexplicably, it’d been painted gray to match the walls. “Anybody who lives here must pray for death.” In his head, he corrected himself; more likely, they think they are already dead. He thrust his hand into his pocket, and pulled out a small slip of paper. Apartment four. This was it. He closed his eyes and sighed.

The inside of the apartment was exactly as he imagined it would be. Slightly underfurnished. Bare walls. Putrid smell. Dishes in the sink. This is how people live, he thought to himself. He placed his briefcase gently down on a small table near the door. Click. Click. It seemed to unlatch itself. His routine was kicking in again.

Two bedrooms. Opposite each other in the hallway. Which one? The left one. He crept up to it, turned the knob slowly, and pushed through. Squinting through the darkness, he could make out the vague outline of a bunk bed. Kid’s room. “How tepid,” he thought to himself. He cringed, and realized he still didn’t know what tepid meant.

This time, he went into the master bedroom. Ridiculously underfurnished, he thought. Just a big queen bed, a night stand with a glass of water on it, and some pictures taped on the wall. In the bed, he could faintly see an outline of a large, portly man. Here we go. A slight gust of wind swept through an open window and into the room. He chuckled quietly. It was not a wind of change, although for all he knew, it could have been tepid. What the hell did that word mean? That knowledge was in his mind somewhere. He had a four year degree. He’d always gotten great grades in English. Tepid. Tepid. Tepid. It was losing what little meaning it had. Suddenly, the man in the bed coughed and rolled over. He raised his hand swiftly, and fired two rounds from the pistol he was holding directly into the man’s forehead. In his last throes, the man in the bed flailed his arm out wildly to one side, spilling the glass of water.

He looked over at the spilled water and cocked his head. Wait! That was it! Tepid! Like tepid water! Tepid means warm! The fortune made no sense. “Great,” he thought to himself. He’d spent the whole night obsessed with something that was just poorly translated.

He looked at his watch, and let out a sigh. Running late. He had to get back out there — back out into that hellish cold. He trudged back into the hallway. It was going to be a shitty day.

Day 2: WOW! HOLLYWOOD! I’m HERE! Seeing Los Angeles for the first time was amazing. Coming up over the hill on Interstate 10, you see all the city lights and the skyline, and it’s just breathtaking. I got on the “101″ — gosh, I’m already using the lingo — and took it right to Sunset Boulevard! Woohoo! When everything opens, I’m going to start looking for an apartment.

Day 3: The apartment search is a bit rough so far. Everything here is so expensive! I might not be able to live in Hollywood. I’ve looked in a few places around the area. I drove down the interstate a ways to another part of town to look at an apartment in “South Los Angeles”. It seems like a nice neighborhood. I am going to go back tonight to take some pictures with my digital camera.

Day 4: I got mugged last night when I went to take pictures. They stole my wallet, my digital camera and all the money in my pockets. It was really scary; I’ve never been mugged or anything like that before. Luckily I didn’t have all my cash in my wallet, but they got my credit cards and my driver’s license. I suppose I need to get a new one of those anyway.

Day 5: I got an early start today. The clerk at the hotel gave me directions to the DMV. The line was so long! I waited in it for over three and a half hours, and when I got to the front, they asked me if I had an appointment. I told them no, and they said I had to have one. Apparently, everybody else in the line had one. It was a little difficult to understand the person behind the counter, because they didn’t really speak English, but I think I have one at 3pm, the day after tomorrow. I will have to remember that.

Day 6: I went back to South Los Angeles to talk to them about that apartment. They told me they needed two forms of identification to apply. I explained my situation, and reminded them that I had just been in there a couple days ago. They claimed to not remember who I was, and told me again that I would need two forms of ID. I filled out the application and gave them that plus my social security card, which I had been keeping in my briefcase. I hope the DMV can come through with that photo ID tomorrow.

Day 7: On my way out the door this morning, the hotel clerk said that my credit card is maxed out, and I need to give him another one to charge any more days. I explained to him that my wallet was stolen, and that the thieves must be using my card. He said no problem; he will contact the credit card company for me. What a nice guy! The line at the DMV was so long, though. It took almost four hours this time to get to the front. Once I got up there, I filled out all the paperwork and handed it over. They told me they need to see my passport or a social security card to give me the license! I explained my situation and told them I didn’t have a passport. I will need to come back Monday with my social security card to finish the process and get the driver’s license. I guess I’ll need to drive back down to South L.A. to get it.

Day 8: I got thrown out of my hotel room this morning. They said my card was no good. I told them that the clerk had said he was going to call the credit card company and take care of things, but they didn’t believe me! I didn’t see the guy who had told me that, and I couldn’t remember his name. I had to pack everything back into my car and leave, though. There was no reasoning with them. I’m definitely going to be filing a complaint on their website when I get moved into that new apartment, which I hope will be soon. I went to the management office down in South LA to get my social security card back, but they are not open on Saturdays or Sundays. I guess I will have to wait until Monday morning.

Day 9: Sleeping in the car was rough. I parked it on Highland Ave., right by the intersection of Hollywood Blvd. A lot of strange people have been knocking on my window, staring in, or just loitering around my car. A homeless man pounded on the window and would not stop until I rolled it down. He asked me if I had any change. When I told him no, he began shouting obscenities at me until I finally had to move the car half a block down. I am going to be at the apartment place first thing tomorrow morning.

Day 10: Today has been an absolute nightmare. I woke up at 6am and went over to McDonalds to use the bathroom before I headed into town. They charge 25 cents just to get into the stupid thing! How lame is that? I ended up buying a McMuffin just to get a free token for the bathroom, which I guess wasn’t free, cause I spent $2 on the McMuffin. At least that covered breakfast. The real nightmare began when I got to the apartment place. They claim to not even know who I am! I threw a small fit; I really didn’t mean to lose my temper the way I did. I demanded to see the manager, because I need that social security card. Things got heated and they had their security people escort me out. I don’t know what to do now.

“You pretty much have to live in Los Angeles.” Yikes. Los Angeles. I’d been to California. A few times, in fact. For work. Of course, I hadn’t been to Los Angeles, except for the airport. I’d been in Santa Barbara. There’s no pollution in Santa Barbara, and really, there aren’t that many people. Not real people, anyway. There’s affluent white people, sure, and people working who commuted two hours to be there. The median housing cost is like, what, a million dollars? That didn’t seem like a good representation of the entire state. Still, if that’s where you had to be, that’s where you have to be.

Except, Los Angeles isn’t somewhere it seemed desirable to be. I grew up in a town of around ten thousand people. I couldn’t go to the store without running into at least three people I knew. Bad traffic consisted of both lanes being backed up for at least a quarter of a mile. Everybody shopped at the local Wal-Mart. If they weren’t there, they were at the theater. No, not that theater. The other one. The good one. Now, at the time, we were living near Miami. To me, that was the big city. The huge city. The monstrous city. I’m from Florida, and, well, Miami is the biggest city in Florida. So it’s sortof a question of relative size. And yes, Miami has bad crime, but not the part we lived in. We were living on Fort Lauderdale Beach, and it wasn’t half bad. Not bad at all, really. The sun was usually shining, the temperature was around 75 degrees on Christmas Day, and there wasn’t a hint of pollution in the air. Going to the beach wasn’t a day trip, it was something we did on our way back from breakfast.

Los Angeles, though. That was a different beast. It’s huge. It’s disconnected; spread out. Sprawl, they call it. That’s just a fancy name for poorly planned, though. Three hundred square miles of concrete spanning four counties. And right there at the northern end, was Hollywood. The center of it all. The entertainment capital of the world. Where the successful go to live in poverty. Where dreams go to die.

I looked over at my roommate. “You want to go?”

“Yeah, fuck, if you want to go to LA, let’s go.”

“Let’s do it.”

Well, that was easy.

At least, it felt like that had just happened. Or maybe he just wished it would have happened — it would probably hurt less. After a few seconds of throbbing pain, though, it seemed unlikely that he was dead. He struggled to remember what happened. Where was he? What’s going on? The light struck his eyes through their barely-opened lids, giving him a nausea not unlike the time he’d gone deep sea fishing.

A pair of lips pressed lightly against his cheek. His eyes sprung open, and darted around frantically. The ceiling fan spun slowly overhead. He focused on it, confused. Had he imagined that?

“Hey, stud. Are you back with us?” It was Tiffany’s voice. He turned his head slightly, and realized she was kneeling down on the floor next to him, where the table had been. “That was quite the little spill you took.”

“Yeah, I uh, I don’t know what happened. I guess I blacked out.” His voice was cracked and strained. His throat was sandpaper. A small scouting expedition was lost in the vast desert of his tongue. Carefully, he tried to work up some saliva. It was not to be. “I think I need a glass of water.”

“Sure, hon.” Tiffany smiled and leaned over him. His entire body tensed up. She leaned down towards him. This was it. Finally. Oh my god. The kiss. It was actually going to happen. What about Joey? No, forget that. Put that thought right out. There is no Joey. There never has been. There is no concept of it. There’s no apartment, no job, no city, and no past or future. There is just this moment. It’s time to stop thinking about everything but now, and focus on making something happen.

John lifted his head, closed his eyes, and pressed his lips against Tiffany’s. They were warm, and moist — a stark contrast to his own. They were also quick to depart. He felt her jerk her head back. He heard her gasp. He reminded himself that he had never even been deep sea fishing. He opened his eyes, witnessed her shocked, confused expression, and became painfully aware of the fact that there was a city, and there was an apartment, and yes, oh yes, there was a Joey.

“John, I, what, uh…” She sat back on her legs, and stared down at him. John sighed and rolled his head to one side. What the hell had just happened? He struggled to understand what could’ve caused him to kiss her. It must have seemed like that would be appropriate. He couldn’t remember. Had she leaned in? Or had he leaned up towards her? He had to get his story straight before he said anything to her. He had to figure this out. His case had to be airtight.

“Is he awake?” No. No. Not Joey. That couldn’t have been Joey. He’s not here.

“Joey! Uh! Yes! He just woke up! I was going to get him some water!” Tiffany leapt to her feet, and briskly moved towards the kitchen. John struggled to get to his feet as well. He looked up and saw Joey moving towards him.

“What happened, man? Are you okay?” He flopped down on the couch. John managed to stand, but quickly fell down onto the opposite corner of the couch from Joey.

“I guess I blacked out. I haven’t been sleeping much. Been sitting around drinking all night.” John chuckled at himself. He glanced past Joey at the door to the kitchen. He knew that any second, Tiffany was going to emerge, and explain what had just happened. His brain quietly collaborated with both of his legs to figure out a plan for escape.

“You’re an alcoholic.”

“I guess so.” Only a few obstacles between him and the door — some shoes, and the table that he’d banged his head on. Tiffany must have moved it over there. John wagered he should try to come up with a reason for casually moving them out of the way.

Tiffany walked into the room, glass of water in hand. She reached down and held it out to John. He stared at it for a moment, then took it, avoiding eye contact with Tiffany. She stood up and looked around. Joey looked between them. John sipped his water nervously.

“Too good to sit with us, Tiff?” Joey chuckled at his own joke.

“I thought we could all go to dinner. If John is feeling okay.” John began chugging his water.

“Let’s do it. I’m starving. Hey, we can go to that restaurant you and John ate at.”

John looked at Tiffany. She looked back at him, then looked away. He sighed, and knew there was no way around this. They were all going to go to dinner together. And they were going to talk, and tell jokes, and laugh, and have a good time.

It could be worse, John thought. She could’ve kissed him.

John awoke on the floor with a bit of a headache. After a few moments, he was finally able to recall where he was, and who he was. He would worry about the rest later. “What happened?”, he asked. A few more moments passed. He realized that nobody was going to answer. Slowly, he struggled to his feet. Where was Tiffany? Had she gone to get help? He assumed that was the case. He patted himself down, to make sure all the good parts were intact.

It was then that he noticed the note taped to his chest.

He plucked it off, confused, and turned it around to read it.

“John – You knocked your head pretty good. You’re still breathing, I’m sure you’ll be fine. I went to your place to see Joey. If you don’t show up, we’ll come check on you. Thanks for stopping by. Tiffany.”

He stared at the note in amazement. She left? She’s not even here? What if he had been laying on the floor dying? Did she even bother to prop his head up on a pillow? He looked down at where he had been laying. No, she hadn’t! And she went to see Joey?! His head spun. A dull ache still throbbed behind his right eye. He rubbed it profusely, which only made things worse. Carefully, he lowered himself down onto the couch, and studied the note again. His hand slid around behind his neck, his fingers gently dragging across his swollen bite. He wondered if maybe it was skin cancer. That thought made him crack a partial smile. The partial smile horrified him utterly. He shook it off, and went back to studying the note. The fact that she’d abandoned him here would not sink in. He refused to let it sink in. If she could manage to do that, that would mean–

His cell phone began vibrating wildly in his pocket. Ah, yes. He figured he knew who it was. Did he really want to answer, though? He felt no immediate urge to do so. In fact, he didn’t know what to make of any of this. Things that Tiffany had told him randomly surfaced in his mind. The whole situation was a confusing, jumbled mess. He wondered if he had a concussion. The phone continued its incessant vibrating in his pocket. Obviously, Tiffany’s relationship was much more complex than he’d thought. It probably wasn’t just hers, though. People are tricky. This sort of thing probably goes on all the time, and he just wasn’t privy to it. Or maybe he’d been so focused on his own wants, he’d just ignored the wants and needs of the people around him. The phone was practically leaping out of his pocket. Annoyed, he thrust his hand in, pulled out the phone, and flipped it open. “Yes?”

“You’re alive!” It was Brian, a friend of both his and Joey’s. That caught him off guard. He wondered why Brian would be calling. “Hello? John? You there?” He realized that, through the power of technology, he could simply ask.

“Brian. Yeah. What’s up? What do you need, man?”

“Just seeing if you’re up and around. Heard you took quite the spill over at Tiff’s.” News travelled fast. He wondered if he’d missed any calls from his family, or possibly CNN, wanting the exclusive story.

“Yeah, I’m fine. Just getting ready to head out.”

“Great. Look, we’re all going over to the theater. Wanted to see if you wanted to go catch a flick.” John looked at his wrist, precisely where a watch would be, if he was wearing one.

“I don’t know if I can make it. Who’s we?”

“Me, Joey, and Tiff so far. No clue what we’re seeing.” John sighed, and looked around the apartment.

“Sure. I’ll be there.”

“Great. Call my cell when you get downtown.”

“No problem.” John closed his phone. He struggled for a moment to make sense of everything that was going on, but after a moment, gave up. There was nothing to make sense of. He looked at his wrist again, and realized that the next time he was at the store, a watch would not be a bad idea. Still, he should get moving if he wanted to get to the movie by a decent time. He couldn’t be out too late. It was a big day at work tomorrow.

The End.

Betraying confidence was something that John knew how to do very well. Throughout his life, he had not been the model friend. He struggled to keep specific examples from bubbling their way to the surface of his mind, thus forcing him to relive the experience and feel bad all over again. Guilt was a constant side effect of getting what he wanted out of life. It seemed that the feelings of his friends, relatives, and co-workers always took a back seat to matters of his heart. At the bat of an eye, he would re-prioritize himself to better suit the needs of a significant other, or a potential significant other. There was a word for that, he thought. Spineless.

This form of self-berating was meant to convince him to not do what he was about to do. There was no stopping him, though. He reached up and rang the buzzer. A few moments later, there was a loud click.

“Yes?” Tiffany’s voice warbled through the speaker.

“Tiffany? It’s John.” His voice cracked. His palms were sweaty. He relived puberty on her stoop.

“John! Come on up.” That was easier than he figured it would be. The door buzzed, and he hurriedly jerked it open and ran inside. The walk to Tiffany’s apartment was, quite frankly, a scary one. Her building was ancient, and the hallways were barely wide enough for one person to fit down. Inside each apartment he walked past was either a drug deal in progress, a hooker trying to make her next student loan payment, or a crime scene. At least, that’s how John imagined it in his mind. It probably wasn’t like that. He balled his hands into fists and walked a little faster, finally arriving at Tiffany’s door. It was already open a crack. He slipped inside.

“Hey stranger.” Tiffany sat comfortably on the couch, her long hair was tossed up in a bun. This was the first time John had seen her without any kind of make-up on. She was positively radiant. He stared into her eyes. Her mouth worked its way into a smile. “Are you okay?”

“Oh, um–” John averted his eyes. He was gawking like a moron. He had to stay focused. This had to stay strictly business. “–sorry, it was a rough day at work.”

“That’s too bad. Have a seat!” John nodded and plopped down on the couch, as far into the opposite corner as he could manage. “What was so rough about it?”

“I quit my job today.” John felt a smile creep across his face. It felt so good to say that.

“Oh my god, are you serious?”

“…No. I really wanted to quit, though.” His face reverted to his usual, expressionless gaze.

“So, we haven’t really talked since our dinner, huh? I’m so sorry you had to see me fighting with Joey the other day. That was so trashy! I felt like trash.” She twirled a loose strand of hair that hung down. John’s eyes dropped down and took her in. She was wearing a loose white t-shirt and pajama pants. He realized that she didn’t have a bra on. A tingle shot up his spine. He tried to remember how many receptions Andre Davis had made in the 2005 season.

“I uh, that’s kindof what I wanted to talk to you about… what is going on with you and Joey? I really don’t want to intervene, or meddle, or anything like that, but I am just a little bit curious… and since you and him are both my friends, I was wanting to hear your side of things.”

“Oh.” She put her arms behind her and stretched, arching her back out. John stared intently. Ten. Ten receptions. Or was it nine– “I don’t really want to talk about it. Joey was just being an asshole, and I was being a bitch, and I don’t even remember what the fight was about.”

“You don’t remember? Then why haven’t you guys made up yet?”

“I don’t know. I don’t even know if we’re going to, honestly.”

“Are you serious?” John was puzzled. They had seemed so happy up until the fight. They can’t just call it quits based off of one fight. Of course, who was he to stand in the way? It was up to her. If she wanted to end things, that was fine with him. Better than fine. It was great. Because it was what she wanted.

“I just don’t know. Joey’s a great guy, but after our fight, I guess I just sorta lost interest in him. He didn’t even call me, he still hasn’t called me. And I had to start the fight.”

“Wait, what do you mean start it?” John scooted closer to her on the couch. Tiffany looked around, generally avoiding eye contact. “Huh? What do you mean?”

“Fine, okay. I was getting annoyed that he wouldn’t fight about anything. I mean, I know I was aggravating him, I was even doing it on purpose a lot of times, but he would never say anything, ever. He always just gave in to whatever I said or did. I finally had to force him to argue with me. And even then, he just got defensive and mean.”

John was confused. Very confused. She started the fight on purpose, because they never fought? She wanted to fight? That was the dumbest thing he’d ever heard. Of course, who was he to argue with her? He scratched the back of his neck, sending a wave of sickening pain through his body. He winced slightly.

“I think I see what you’re getting at.” Oh my god, he was such a sell-out. He had no idea what she was getting at. Tiffany smiled.

“That’s awesome! I figured you would be like, what are you talking about? See, you get me. I wish Joey was more like you.” The confusion got worse. He had just done exactly what she accused Joey of doing. He gave in and agreed with her. And she liked it? Did she realize that?

She put her hand on his knee.

Suddenly, he completely understood her point, and agreed with everything she had ever said. Ever. She looked at him and smiled again. They made eye contact. He was back in. A warm, tingling sensation washed over him. He put his hand over top of hers. In the back of his mind, he was nagged by regret that he didn’t actually have yet. Potential regret, for an outcome he was still only dreaming of. It was just a friendly hand-on-hand-on-knee… thing. He didn’t quite know what to make of it, but he knew it felt good. A sort of euphoria came over him. The warm sensation in his skin increased. He felt the blood rushing out of his head. Sweat dripped into his eyes from his forehead. His vision got darker. His hand slipped off of Tiffany’s, and he slid off of the couch onto the floor, banging his head on the edge of the coffee table. His vision went black.

As John walked towards the door, it was already apparent to him that something was wrong. After living in buildings with shared walls for as long as he had, the sounds of muffled yelling were very familiar to him. He just hoped that it wasn’t coming from his apartment.

He reached his hand towards the knob. More muffled yelling. In his mind, he thought back to when he had parked. He hadn’t seen Tiffany’s car. That didn’t mean much, though. She could’ve taken a cab, or walked. He could’ve picked her up. Maybe her car was at the shop.

The knob stared at him menacingly. It had a sort of cruel glimmer in the pale yellow light of the corridor. John studied the knob intently, blocking out the sounds coming from beyond the door. He once again tried to convince himself that they were coming from another apartment. The attempt failed. He could now recognize the voices. It was definitely Tiffany and Joey. But were they fighting? Were they just horsing around? He had never seen or heard them actually fight.

Finally, the knob could take no more. It insisted that John open the door. He resigned himself to his fate, and reached into his pocket to retrieve his keys.

It was then that the door flung open.

John jumped back, startled. He looked up to see Tiffany. He had never seen her like this before. Her face was red, and damp from tears. He noticed wrinkles around the edges of her mouth that he had never seen before. Her hair was tussled and unkempt. As he studied her, she made eye contact. His heart began beating rapidly. He felt exposed and uninvited, as if he had intruded into her world, invading her privacy and seeing things that were not meant for him. She stared into his eyes, and he stared back. This was the moment he had dreamed of. They had connected.

“Tell your goddamn roommate that if he wants to stop being such a fucking child, he knows my number.” The words shot like venom from her mouth. He was back on the outside, forcibly and violently evicted. He struggled to recover. She brushed past him and tossed her purse onto her shoulder. Joey appeared in the doorway.

“Women, huh?” Joey shook his head and leaned against the door frame. “I mean, Jesus. That was a little dramatic, don’t you think?” John pushed past Joey and entered the apartment. He tossed his keys down on the end table.

“I don’t want to get involved.”

“Don’t want to get involved? What the fuck does that mean?” Joey stepped back inside and slammed the door. John sat down on the couch carefully, picked up the remote and turned on the television.

“It means, I don’t want to get involved, man. I’m friends with both of you and I can’t get in the middle of some fight.”

“You’re friends with both of us? You’re my fucking friend. Don’t get sucked into this shit, damnit, I hate it when they do that. They come into your life, and they sneak around the back and steal your fucking friends, and when shit like this goes down, you can’t even count on anybody, and you can’t talk about it, because everything you say gets passed along to her. Christ and you live with me!” Joey paced around the room, gesturing wildly as he spoke. John tried his best to focus on the television.

“You just need to calm down, okay? Don’t get so bent out of shape. It’s just a fight. Fights happen, right?”

Joey stopped pacing. He looked around, and finally plopped down into a large recliner. “We haven’t fought before.”

“Not ever?”

“Not ever. Not even once.”

“Doesn’t that anger kindof build up?”

“Well, I fucking guess so! Jesus, what do you think, you saw her storm out of her. Use your head…” John sighed to himself and tuned Joey out. There was no use in talking to people when they were like this. The best you can hope to do for them is to be their emotional punching bag, letting them finish the fight on you, since the person they were actually fighting with left the ring and went home. Of course, he was very curious what they were fighting about. He strained to keep his thoughts neutral. What if this was it? What if, after this, it’s all down hill? First, a huge explosive fight. Then the make-up. Then some smaller, less serious fights. They stop talking as much. They lose interest in each other. Communication between them breaks down. And then they start looking for something else.

He looked around, and realized that Joey had gone, presumably to his room. He reflected on how he had ignored Joey’s rant in favor of plotting the demise of his relationship.

At least he hadn’t followed her down the hallway.

Read part seven.

The wind blew cold against John’s face, irritating his chapped lips and painfully reminding him of the swollen mosquito bite on the back of his neck. It always felt much colder here than it did at his apartment. He assumed it was because his employer was inherently evil. This gave him a much-needed chuckle. He drew in a long breath, and walked towards the door to the building.

With each step, his mind raced with excuses he could use to not walk through those doors. He had been going through this process since his alarm had gone off this morning. He wasn’t sure when he had begun hating his job so much, but he did know that the most ridiculous excuses seemed plausible at this point. Sick grandmother? Sure. Dog ate the rat poison? Definitely. Car won’t start? His boss had seen his car, so he knew he could pull that one off.

He applauded himself for actually being in front of the building. Of course, he was still at street level. He stopped walking and stared up towards the sky.

The building he worked in was immense. From ground level, you could not see the top. It cast a large, looming shadow over the street, giving everything below a gray pallor.

He looked at his watch. Four minutes until he had to be at his desk. It takes nearly that long just to get up to the… his thought trailed off. He realized didn’t remember which floor he worked on. His finger knew exactly which button to push in the elevator to get him to that floor, but off the top of his head, he couldn’t recall the actual floor.

“This is stupid.” He hadn’t meant to say that out loud. Several people walking by turned to look at him momentarily, then continued on. In his mind, he lived out his entire day at work. Every mind-numbing motion, every meaningless phone call, every minute spent waiting at the copier. When he put it into this perspective, it all seemed so clear what he should do.

He should quit his job.

It was destroying him, and he knew it. The tedium of it all was getting to him. It was making him regret decisions he knew weren’t bad. It was boring him so completely that he was seeking excitement in any possible way. And that was going to get him into trouble. He knew what he had to do. It was time to grow some balls and take care of this problem once and for all.

He stood up straight. He looked around, and a smile came across his face. He straightened out his shirt, and tightened the knot on his tie. He lifted his chin up, and he started walking. Not walking — striding. He strode confidently towards the doors, and pushed through them as the president of his company must push through them. He made his way across the lobby and slid between the closing doors of an elevator. They immediately opened back up and allowed him in. Of course they did. He was a new man now. Doors opened for him. As he rode up towards the floor he couldn’t remember the number of, he singled out each door and promised that it would be treated fairly under his new regime. The doors remained silent, but he knew they understood. They are true professionals.

The elevator ground to a halt, and the doors opened. He looked up at the display, and noted he was on the fifty-second floor. Wow. Fifty two stories above the ground. He rocked back slightly. Where he had come from, buildings tended to cut off around the sixth or seventh floor, and those were only the newer high-rises. He wondered what would happen if he got trapped in this elevator one day. His fear of heights got the better of him. He shook it off, and realized he needed to get off the elevator and continue his march to vindication. He took a step towards the elevator doors.

They closed.

The doors betrayed him.

And why wouldn’t they? Here he was, on his grand mission to retake his life, and he was afraid of how high up he was. Pathetic. If he can’t even hold it together in an elevator, how is he going to do something like quit his job? And if he quit his job, what would he do for money? How did he expect to afford taking Tiffany out to dinner? How did he expect to afford anything? New York is a big city, but jobs are still hard to come by, unless you like waiting tables. This entire concept was flawed from the start, he thought.

The elevator stopped on the twenty-third floor to let someone on. John looked at his watch, and realized he was now two minutes late. He reached up and pressed the button for his floor. As the doors closed, John prayed that nobody would notice his tardiness.

Read part six.

John sat on the edge of his bed, nursing a beer. He had stopped and picked up a twelve pack on the way home from work, as a sort of celebration. A factual timeline would show that tonight was the second anniversary of his moving to New York City. On a lonely Thursday night, however, John tended to focus on other things.

He could still hear the sounds of her sobbing.

They laid in bed, staring at the ceiling. The room was mostly empty, with assorted boxes stacked against one wall, and red, numbered stickers on all of the furniture. He could feel her roll over to face him, and he sensed that something was wrong. Fear kept him from looking at her.

“Please.”

His entire body tensed. “Please what?”

“Please take me with you.” Her voice cracked noticeably. He felt as if she was barely holding herself together. He tried to distance himself from the moment. The kitchen. He wondered if he had finished filling out the inventory for all of the kitchen stuff. The movers were coming tomorrow, first thing, and if he hadn’t finished–

“Are you even listening to me?”

He sighed and adjusted his position on the bed. Her face briefly came into his field of view. He could see the tears welling in her eyes. He remained quiet, and unwilling to compromise. It wasn’t his fault that she couldn’t deal with this situation. She was being foolish and stupid, which was so typical for her. Only thinking of her emotions, and what she felt like she wanted, rather than doing what was logical, or what made sense. She was completely ignoring everything that they’d discussed, and the decisions they had made together. Not only that, but she was being incredibly selfish. She knew what he wanted, and he knew that. She knew he knew. Why was she being like this? He hoped it was only temporary. A last minute lapse of judgement that would quickly be tempered by reason. For the most part, she was an intelligent and responsible woman, even if a little immature at times. She’s probably working through the last few issues right now, he thought, right at this very moment. And in a minute or two, she’ll be fine.

Her last emotional barrier crumbled. It was as if a higher power had suddenly robbed her of her sanity. Tears began running down her face. She sobbed uncontrollably. Her body heaved with each gasping breath she took. He did not see any of this. He couldn’t bear to face her. In his mind, he could imagine what she must look like. He squeezed his eyes shut, and tried to shake the image loose from his head. Her sniffling only served to irritate him. He could feel his resolve slipping away. If this kept up, he would crack. He would roll over, and see her laying there, helpless and alone. A strong, independent woman, laid bare a helpless child. He would have to comfort her. Only a monster could remain emotionless in that sort of a situation. He opened his mouth slowly, his chapped lips cracking apart painfully.

“I’m going to go double check the kitchen.”

The sounds of sobbing had quieted. He felt her roll over, but did not look to see how she was arranging herself. He rolled off of the bed and stood up, then walked out of the room, moving slowly and purposefully towards the kitchen.

As he dug through boxes of pots and pans, mulling over a checklist and trying not to think about much else, he heard the front door of his apartment tear open, then slam shut. She had left.

Tonight was the second anniversary of the last time he’d ever spoken with her. Usually, he could go an entire night without recalling the details of that incident. Once, he’d even gone as long as two weeks. Lately, though, he relived it daily. Hourly. In the span of a moment, his mind meticulously replayed each word, each sound, each sob, with crystal clarity. Each time, the motivations for his decision became muddier. And each time, his feelings of remorse and regret were amplified.

Through his closed bedroom door, he heard Joey come into the apartment. John froze. Every muscle in his body tensed. He listened intently. Several seconds passed. Each one felt like an eternity. After twelve to fifteen lifetimes, he heard Tiffany’s voice. He relaxed, and let out a sigh. She was in the apartment. He hadn’t seen her since their dinner. Hurriedly, he leapt to his feet and put his beer down on his desk. He ran his fingers through his hair. Why would he do that? She was just a friend. He just wanted to make sure it wasn’t all sticking up, he assured himself. He gave it one last run-through just to be sure, then straightened out his shirt and fixed his collar. He strode across the room to his door and reached his hand out towards the knob.

He heard Joey’s door shut.

They had gone into his room.

John’s hand fell to his side. He looked around the room, as his brain struggled to come up with an excuse to be standing in front of the door. It failed to think of one in time to stop the embarrassment.

John picked his beer back up from the desk, and sat back down on the edge of the bed.

Read part five.