Closing Time.

    I’m getting my keyboard out, he thought. I’m gonna write something. He had something on his mind, he knew he had something. Yet, he felt himself slow down as he reached for it, 3 feet from him. He looked at it for a second. Not dusty, but with enough bread crumbs on it to remind him of the trail he’d left behind, and that he needed to clean up. It was a good moment, because it felt like creation. It felt like your ideas were ready to come out, that they were ready to survive among the unforgiving scorn of the world. He wanted to cherish it, because soon they would be gone. Or perhaps they would decide themselves unable to come out, retreating into the corners of his mind. They did.

    I should go for a walk, he thought. It was only 10, and he had long enough for the walking to become truly aimless. The street looked inviting, just drying itself off a small shower which he had been blissfully unaware of. There were no cars in sight, and the dim yellow of the streetlights lit hazy spots on the road, uncovered by tire tracks. Strange, he thought as he put on his jacket.

    He hadn’t gone ten feet from the door when he felt the showers of self-consciousness on him. He ran a hand through his tousled hair and found himself unable to retrieve it. He looked at the window, only this time it was at his reflection, not the pavement below. He looked fresh. He looked happy. This time it was different. His face masked the solemnity inside, presented a bright optimist that served as a foil for the battle-hardened realist inside. You really need to relax and get laid, his reflection told him. Right back at you, he told the glass. Chuckling, he realized that his own jokes were the only ones he ever chuckled at anymore, and that he was the only one that chuckled at them anymore.

    Oddly fitting, he thought as he took his jacket off and switched to a hoodie. It felt more comfortable, plus it didn’t look expensive enough to be shot over. He walked out onto the street and was immediately confronted by a voice, timid and unsure: “Could you tell me how to get to the railway station?”. He turned his eyeballs around and looked at the young brunette standing before him. She was 5’3”, cute and wearing a striped pink top with jeans and high heels. “Are you an angel?” he asked. Who else could you be, if you’ve given me a voice when I needed it the most? It was a disconnected world, and suddenly, he felt scared. He felt he needed her voice to carry him through the day, to tell him he’d be okay, to tell him to shut up when he was thinking too much. “Where were you all my life?” he asked. Where were you when I woke up, and realised that my pillow was across the room? Where were you when I needed you the most?

Two blocks that way, then just follow the signs, he heard himself say.

    He awoke to the sound of breakfast. He peeped over the window and into the street. All he could see were the backsides of cars as they waited in line, offering friendly advice with their red taillights. He looked at the people on the street he realized he’d been looking through, and he found that he recognized none of them. Nonplussed, he looked on.

    She’s gorgeous, he thought, looking at the brunette in the striped pink top standing by the bus stop. She was smiling, almost laughing at something, a ghost, a whisper of the moment before. When it passed, she was no longer beautiful to him anymore. It was as though the sadness, the soul-crushing grief that was waiting on her eyebrows had descended upon her face with them. He looked away and down, only to find the warm blue light of his wristwatch staring up at him. It was nine thirty.