Eleven to Eighty-Eight Words

The train will take me far enough where the chances of running into someone I know are slim, but close enough to escape back to my real life if trouble arises.  Fuck college or the military, I will travel this state and assume a new identity whenever I please – shedding names and birthdates as I hop on the next bus or train out of town.  There’s no need to have an idea of myself when I set out to discover who I am.

I convince myself that I am right and push the issue with John, “I’m pretty sure that girl, there, is checking you out.”  John looks to his beer for an answer, but decides to finish it instead.

PJ Covington was killed today outside his private estate in Northern California.  Reports are unclear at this time if Covington was shot by a Knight of the OED or if Covington was just another victim of a Leetist terrorist attack.  Mourners have gathered around the globe to show their love and support of one of the most brilliant minds of the 21^st century.

I’m tired of the questions; no answer is ever good enough.

“Why are you getting married?”

“She has insurance.”

She asked me why I am so cruel to myself.  I sipped my coffee, stared at her, and spoke, “It’s a reflection of what I will exact on you some day.”  She seemed shocked, and studied the menu in front of her.

I could’ve ended it just then.

“Yes, I ask you questions to see your reaction.”

“That’s not healthy.”

“What is these days?”

“Is that another one of your questions?”

“Look, I was being honest with you and you got your feelings hurt, and for that I’m sorry, but I don’t think it’s fair for you to not forgive me!”

“I don’t think I can.”

“Why not?”

“Because it was my mother’s funeral.”

I attacked the bathroom – tiles were bombed off the floor; the sink, toilet, and tub were gutted; the mirror made a last stand, but I laid the final blow – because she said she’s not coming back.

“This isn’t healthy.”

“The food isn’t that bad.”

“That’s not what I’m talking about.”

“Oh, that.”

“Yeah, that. I’m starting to get worried.”

“Are you still doing it?”

“Of course I am! It’s just how often I do it, which isn’t much, and where I do it, which is at work, that bothers me.”

“So, you’re a little irregular.”

“I’d hardly call this irregular.”

“Well, maybe you’re spending too much time at work.”

“You think?”

“That’s what it sounds like.”

“Maybe a vacation…”

“Good idea.”

“Dinner’s ready,” Linda called from the kitchen.  The kids, teenagers really, sat in front of the TV – something about celebrity scandal.  Linda peered out into the family room, staring at the backs of her un-phased children, “Dinner is ready.”  No movement.  The screen cut to commercial – the kids were in the dining room.  Seats were taken, where Linda revealed the main course. “Leftovers?”