#19

he'd done it before. you meet a girl online. "what a great guy" she'd say "just so nice, and we talk about everything!"
then they met. what else was there to talk about? true to the female nature, she would sit uncomfortably, racing through scenarios in her head, wondering if he thought her dress was too loud, or did her armpits smell, assuming that he hated her hair, second-guessing herself- should she have ordered a salad? and he would become bored, annoyed with the female psyche, wishing she would know he was happy to be out with anyone at all.

this time, he would get it right.
she fell for him, she was involved, so interested, but they had never met. it was right where he wanted her. she was invested, wanted to meet him, on the verge of thinking she could be in love... but not there yet.
he went to the restaurant an hour before they were supposed to meet. he was not wearing the color of suit he had suggested. his hair was not blonde and he was actually taller than 5'11".
He watched her enter. She scanned the room nervously and finally accepted a table. the waiter brought water. then lemonade. then something a little stronger.
finally, he made his move.
"excuse me, are you alone?"
"no... well, yes. I was waiting for someone." she played with the napkin in her lap. "i don't think he is coming."
"not coming? he must not know what he's missing. may i sit?"
she agreed, and thus began his plan. he knew it would work this time. the online man would be another one to chalk up as a loss. "but!" she would tell her friends. "even though i got stood up, I met the most amazing man." and her imminent heartache would be reversed by this mysterious stranger.

he knew a woman could never really fall in love unless she felt she had been saved.

Nineteen

This was the third morning in a row he had been awaken by ceaseless banging in the apartment upstairs. His usual anger fled as he realized, this morning, that no one had lived in that apartment for months. Old Man Saunders died there two months and three days and seven hours and three minutes ago.

You've got to be kidding me.

He grabbed a short broom from the closet near his from door, thinking it a suitable weapon against whatever interlopers he may find in the dead man's home. The stairs creaked mournfully as he ascended despite his attempts to stifle their protests. Saunders' door was shut tight, as it had been for two months and three days and seven hours and five minutes.

It took his shoulder two tries to open the door, even though it wasn't locked. This was not surprising to him, though, as most of the doors in the building were stubborn. Shifting walls or shifting foundation or somesuch.

Empty. There was no one there. His mind raced through every bad ghost story--

A woman entered, wearing a decade-old business suit that had a nametag over the chest pocket. "Oh good, did those damn movers finally get that ridiculous dresser out of here? Are you my nine o'clock showing?"

#18

I noticed her when she walked in the door, which was a major strike against her. Her hair was brown, deliciously chocolatey brown and I was disgusted with myself for thinking it. She sat directly in front of me and I couldn’t keep my eyes off her. Her shirt was thin, and I couldn’t tell; was that a tattoo on her shoulder? I kept looking, staring, half knowing I looked like a creep.

She was exquisite and that pissed me off.

I was blissfully indifferent and easily overlooked and I liked it that way. I figured that most people worth talking to were the ones like me, though I had never met any of them. If you want attention, be cheerleader, join a theatre group, or amuse yourself in the bathroom. Otherwise, you’ll be better off listening to my advice. Anonymity is the slacker's best friend.

It had never occurred to me that someone might realize that I exist.

Eighteen

The plate smashed on the tile floor with all the fury four feet of gravity could muster. Scrambled eggs lay like a corpse in the heap of shattered ceramic.

Their shouting would worry neighbors not used to it. He accused, she deflected. She reprimanded, he maintained innocence. A cruel and ridiculous game of tennis. Angry footsteps, and a door slams.

Sometimes, a clear conscience is the best revenge.

#17

she fixed herself a mojito, a usually celebratory drink, heavy on the rum.
okay... maybe just a little heavier.
he wasn't coming home tonight. she cranked black flag on the stereo and let henry rollins voice her anger and frustration at people, at the man, at her own inability to retain the independence she had worked so hard in earlier years to establish.
in the bathroom she curled her hair in tight ringlets and took care to blend her makeup perfectly. she studied her own reflection in the mirror, added a little more lipstick, and went to find the camera.
she had on her favorite dress, the little blue one with black lace peeking through in all the sexiest places. she had never worn it out yet. picture after picture, she posed in different places around the house. at the end, she looked through each photo, each shot... and deleted every one.
her face scrubbed clean, she fell asleep on the couch in her beautiful blue dress that no one ever saw, happy with mojito, angry with love, purged with punk rock.

Seventeen (with apologies to PT)

A torn sheet of newspaper danced down the empty street. It's bottom edge charred and soiled, it paraded gleefully along the curb, proclaiming last month's headlines. It's amazing to see how far we've come, but more so to see how far we haven't.

Sixteen

She claimed to know the truth about herself, but she did not. I did not either, but I wanted more than anything to. Why aren't a thousand half-truths worth one? What about a thousand half-brave faces I know she carries? Add a little charisma, and I'd know the answers.

There are faint freckles around her nose, but you'd never notice without getting really close, but I could never see them.