101 Words

“The leaves are turning, a crescendo of color as the song of summer ends. And what we do with our winter, all depends… on what influenced us during the recent summer nights. Did you go for long walks in the dark thinking about your life and lies that caused you strife?”

He stared, blinking, “Seriously? You want to publish that?” “Too gay?” he replied. “It’s so gay I can see the rainbow in your pants. I’ll give you the crescendo bit, but ‘lies that caused you strife’?… Gay!” “You got something better?” he replied. “No, but at least I’m not gay.”

She was examining the different colored boxes as he looked on in frustration, “We already have some! Can we go? I don’t want to miss my show. I missed it last week because you were complaining about me not vacuuming the carpet.”. She glared, “Well, you never listen to me. I can’t bare to live with crumbs all over the carpet. It’s filthy and we need to replace it. You should ask for a raise.”. They wondered off toward the register. A disembodied voice could be heard, “Don’t have time to cook? Our value meals will save you time and money!…”

The swell was so great, filling my ears and devouring my thoughts. So thick. So much. So good. There is no better pleasure in this world than music and this was the best music I had ever heard. It was epic like earthquakes or tornados or bombs falling from the sky. It was that feeling you get when something is deeply important on a level beyond your tiny thoughts. It was the soundtrack that should have been playing when the universe fell out of the cold, dark, night sky. Everything afterwards seemed trite. Was trite. She left. And it was quiet.

Figuratively speaking she was a slut. She talked to anyone who showed an interest in her. She had no morals or bias and accepted everyone. For this she was ironically rejected by her peers because she had no loyalties; belonged to no clubs. It was that team mentality she hated; having to choose between Coke or Pepsi and pay for the t-shirt. She wandered from scene to scene like some sort of human social pinball ball conducting un-spoken experiments on anyone who would have her; unconsciously writing a diverse book in her head that would never be published or even read.

The thoughts come to me like a box of puzzle pieces emptied onto the floor. Fortunately for me I do not need to sort them out. That is for the people who pay me to figure out. Technically I will work for anyone because I am freelance, but corporations and governments are the only clients that can afford my fees. They hire me to read the thoughts of their adversaries. I have millions of dirty secrets in my head and who knows how many people want me dead. I am not even sure if I have thoughts of my own anymore.

The pictures on the wall were blurred with time and cigarette smoke. Faded to the point of abstraction for those that glance at them now. Whereas these pictures actually meant something to someone at sometime. But those people have long passed through this space, this town, and possibly this life. We are left with their smoky intoxicated smiles beaming back at us as if these images were fragments of a mirror from our own past yet to come. I scan the faces in the bar and wonder how they will differ from those in the collage of alcohol, sweat and smiles.