A bit of fiction...

I wrote a story today. It may not be good, but I used to write a lot so I am happy to have done it again ever so briefly:

The bar closed a bit late because a flirty, half-drunk couple had stumbled in at closing time for a last drink on their last night in the city. Though he hated his job, the city and that particular couple, somehow he felt opposed to being the obstacle to their near perfect night. So, he poured one more whiskey, mixed one more gin and tonic and listened to the couple discuss their awe of the monuments and crowds he passed each day in disgust. He prayed they would drink fast and not begin the inevitable debate as to whether or not they could afford to live in such a place, but neither of his prayers were answered. He muttered under his breath what he really thought, that no one could really afford to live there. You always paid financially, spiritually or both.

Once the last drop in their glasses had been consumed and they noticed the bar empty except for them, they paid their bill and left him alone to quietly nurse a scotch, count the money, wipe down the bar and finally begin his stroll towards the subway. He had become accustomed to the darkness and quiet at this time of night that somehow covered with a layer of peace a city usually so pulsating with life and light. It was like watching his father sleep as a child. A powerful, frightful force hidden behind a mask of calm. After 8 years away from home and 2 in the city, he thought that analogy might begin to fade, but each night it came to him and caused a chill. No matter the season, the city always felt cold at 3 AM.

When he first arrived, they were together. He knew the cold night would be broken by the warmth of her body in their small bed. However, be it because of the hours he worked for the only job he could stomach, the unfulfilled promises or the distance he kept between himself and everyone else, within a year she had given up and moved back home.

Fortunately the bar paid well enough for him to keep the lease without her. That way, he neither had to move nor get over her any time in the near future. He liked his solitude for the moment. His life happened on a different schedule from most people around him, and the isolation protected him from facing any disappointments he might otherwise feel in life. He had a few friends from school who had ended up here, some tolerable acquaintances from work and the occasional neighbor with whom he would eat dinner or see a movie from time to time. However, the nights grew longer and the conversations more forced as he became more isolated. Mostly, the read books just kept piling up next to his bed as at home he refused himself all other luxuries. He had come there to ply his trade, namely to observe the world around him and write about it. The obscurity of his background and the mildness of his temperament however made finding a job rather difficult in his intended field. Finally, after taking a job pouring drinks, the hours made it hard to find work. All in all though, the job was not so bad. People came in wanting booze and he obliged them. Once in a while, they asked him for an opinion or a a fact, of which he had many. However, he tried to limit the information or opinions he gave to precisely those for which he was being asked. It seemed the tips were better that way. The irony that news organizations had begun to do the same was not lost on him. At least the stuff he peddled was marked as poison, and one had to be old enough to have graduated high school to consume it. He knew she would have rolled her eyes at him when he said this, but still he felt there was truth there.

Truth is an odd thing when you are alone. There are the truths you believe about yourself but never test, the truths you perceive about the world which are only seen through your eyes, and the falseness of others as you never connect with them in anything more than superficial ways. The gentle rock of the near empty subway almost lulled him to sleep but an abandoned newspaper caught his eye and the headlines distracted his mind enough to push sleep off another few minutes. At his stop, he stepped from the brightly lit station into the darkness around his apartment. It was not the best neighborhood but there were worse and though his apartment faced a brick wall, it was safe and allowed him to sleep well past when the sun had brought everyone else onto the street to start their day. He considered having a bite to eat but decided instead to shower the cigarette smoke off of him and laid down with a book before quickly passing out.

He woke the next morning, finished the chapter he had started the night before since he despised loose ends, ate some cereal and eventually stepped into the light of day. It was beginning to get warm outside and soon his rides to work would involve unbearable heat and potent smells of the city and its inhabitants. For now, it was pleasant outside and he realized, his day off. Usually this meant having an afternoon cappuccino and retiring to his favorite bookstore. However, he found himself feeling oddly rested and well-stocked in reading material. Still, the smile from the woman working at the coffee shop usually helped him get through his week, so he decided to at least stick to the first part of his tradition. Part of him desperately wanted more from her, but he knew that, even if miraculously she liked him initially, in the end either he or she would not measure up in the eyes of the other. So, better to preserve a friendly smile and a good cup of coffee as opposed to being like every other person out there, incapable of not destroying a good thing with greed.

When he arrived, he took his usual seat and saw his fellow regular sitting at the usual table across the shop with his weekly book. More than once, that book had served as a great recommendation and motivation for the bookstore later. However, he was always careful not to bring those books with him to the coffee shop lest the fellow patron notice and perhaps try to initiate a conversation. Beyond decent taste in books, the only other information he had on this person was that his fellow patron enjoyed espresso and though he cleaned his glasses at least five times in the course of a cup of coffee, they remained always slightly smudged. Hardly enough for a friendship, and what is the point of friendship really.

The first taste of caffeine awakened him even further and brought a broad smile to his face. The bustle of people around him grew a bit louder and the brightness of the sun outside strengthened. The distances between himself and others seemed to shrink, though he resisted this impulse immediately. Happiness is truly the enemy of contentment, which he knew all too well. He wished for a way out of this moment, but saw none.

Suddenly, he was distracted from his thoughts by noises seemingly directed towards him. As the warped sounds slowly formed into coherent words, he looked up to see a pair of eyes looking at him through slightly blurred glasses.