June 23, 2010

  •      I sighed as I picked up the glass, rubbing the smooth, glass surface with my index finger and thumb. "Wanna know the funny thing?" I told her, watching her back move up and down in the closet as she tried to find her work clothes.
         I comfortably rolled my head back and forth on the painted motel walls, the ends of my hair touching the bed board.
         "I used to hate unhappy endings. I wouldn't bother with them, you know?" I eyed her keys to the left of me as she scurried around the room, sitting on the table by the window with the God-awful lamp shade that had been splatter painted in shades of green; I was going to hazard a guess that they hadn't ordered it that way. "I suppose, on some level, I was always terrified that that ending said something about the possibilities of my life. I didn't want to end up like that."
         I scratched my right elbow, staring off towards the blank T. V. with the pensive, withdrawn face I used to appear deep. If I had bothered to get up, I might notice the smiley face with its tongue out written by her in the dust on the top, back of the T. V. as she had giggled that same way she had just minutes ago at the bar.
         I smiled to myself slightly. "Now I'm facinated by the twisted and desperate situation. How do you get anything when that dreams turns out to be impossible and the result never satisfying enough? And - oh, how do we salvage it? How do we put together the fragmented edges?" I scoffed. "I'm 20 years old, and I write about the death of dreams."