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I was six years old when I came upon the odd conclusion that I could control the states of water. My mother sat a glass of water in front of me on a warm summer day and I had wanted to, instead of drinking water, chew on ice. So I wished for what I truly wanted and unexpectedly, I got it. Unfortunately, at the time, I didn't have much control over this power and the glass of water had become one frozen piece of ice, which anyone would have a considerate amount of trouble consuming. Despite this, directly after the incidence, my mind, filled with castles and happy endings, concluded that I had the power to make wishes come true. After several attempts though, I realized I was limited to wishes that had to do with making my oatmeal at a faster rate. As a child, I had troubles with the power. I would think of something for the slightest moment and it would happen. My mother would burn her tongue on the previously lukewarm soup, my goldfish would be preserved in an icy death, and little girls would be crying over melted ice cream cones.

Several years passed and in that time, I never really thought much of my power. I really only used it for conventional purposes; making tea quicker, clearing the driveway of snow, drying off after a shower, those kinds of things. It wasn't until I started paying attention in school that I realized I could single-handedly initiate Armageddon and destroy the human race. Luckily, I wasn't a moody teenager and fancied accelerated coffee making rather than accelerated extinction.

After high school, with modest grades, I made it into an extremely basic university. I dropped out after a year, knowing that wasting more money wouldn't be necessary for my inevitable failure at a career. I got a job at a department store and a one-bedroom apartment with a man named Terry. Terry sleeps in the bedroom, while I sleep on the couch in the living room. I rarely ever bring a girl over, but if I do, Terry is kind enough to let me reside in the bedroom for the night.

I have, to this day, kept my power a secret. Perhaps my friends and family have their suspicions, but these suspicions aren't enough for a confrontation. Even if they were, denial is a strong tactic. I had considered revealing my power to the masses, but decided against it. I had never been in the spotlight and didn't want to be. I had thought about my power quite a lot and still hadn't made much sense out of it. "Do others have powers like this?" I would think, "Am I the only one?

"How do I have this?

"Why do I have this?"

No answers came until one winter day that I had off of work. I was walking the city streets, observing the snow covered sidewalks and the people bold enough to wear t-shirts. I went to a nice little diner and ordered a sandwich and a coffee to go. As I picked up the coffee cup, I lowered it's temperature. As I took a sip, the woman behind the counter loudly warned:

"Sir, it's hot!"

I laughed and remarked, "I like my coffee hot. Have a nice day."

I left back out onto the snowy streets and began walking. I took a bite out of my sandwich and it tasted delicious. I crossed the street over to the park, the one my mother used to walk the dog with me through when I was young. In the middle of the park was a large pond, which in the winter was covered with ice. Several kids were playing hockey out the ice. After evaporating the snow off of it, I sat myself down on a bench. Very few people walked through the park that day as I sat silently enjoying my sandwich and coffee.

Suddenly the kids began screaming.

"Help!"

It had seemed that one of the kids, while out retrieving the puck, had fallen through the ice down into the freezing water below. I sat on a bench watching with a mouthful of food, completely still. One of the kids was calling the police on their cell phone, but I knew no one was going to come quickly enough. I sat silently and rose the temperature of the water gradually in the area the boy had fallen. I loosened up the ice and I noticed it begin to crack. The boy pushed his way up through the ice to the surface of the water. I began to lower the temperature of the ice, as to make it more sturdy. The boy climbed up onto the ice and lied there for a few moments before slowly walking back over to his shouting companions. Police soon came, as did news reporters. I took a sip of my coffee and finished up my sandwich. I left the park and it hit me that I had just saved a human life. As I arrived home, I turned on the television to see the boy wrapped in a towel explaining:

"It was a miracle," he said, "I'm so incredibly grateful."

For a long time after that, I had believed I was here to save lives. I had fancied myself as a superhero, but after a few years it became abundantly clear that I wasn't. I hadn't saved anyone since that one boy. One day I sat drinking hot chocolate when, like a brick wall, I abruptly realized:

"That was my purpose."

It took me approximately a year to realize that a small little man had been living in my uncle's old guitar. At about two inches tall, this man curls up in the acoustic guitar all day and all night. As I got talking to this peculiar man, I began to try to understand his purpose.

"I make music," the little man remarks.

"Music?"

"I'm in your guitar, yes?"

"Yes, I suppose that would make sense."

"Play a chord."

I lay my fingers onto the strings and the tips of my fingers sting as I do so. Since I have gotten the guitar (inherited from my deceased uncle), I have rarely picked it up. I have been primarily using my electric guitar, which I can make a large range of music with. I play the G-chord and it sounds like any normal acoustic guitar.

"Alright..."

"That was me."

"The sound?"

"Precisely."

"No, that was the strings."

"Nope. All me."

"But... No, the vibration of the strings and-"

"I am the strings."

"What?"

I sit in the center of my futon, cross-legged with the guitar resting on my legs. The man sits on the peghead with his legs stretched out. My windows are open and the warm breeze drifts in. I take a sip of my tea as the man answers.

"I am the guitar."

"No. The guitar is the guitar."

"I am the vibrations."

"You aren't making any sense."

"Play that chord again."

He smirks at me as he tightens up his miniature tie. I lay my fingers on the strings, just as before, and drag my fingers over the strings. Unexpectedly, the only sound that vibrates out of the guitar is silence.

"What?"

"I am the guitar."

At first what I believed to be a bizarre badinage was becoming reality. A woman wearing a long flowing dress crawls out of my guitar and joins the man at the headstock. She lays next to him and they stare off into the spring abyss. Incense burns steadily to my right and swirls into the air as a miniature fireworks display. Dumbfounded, I sit silently for a minute or two until the man leans up and catches my attention.

"Play us a song and I'll comply."

Instead of trying to comprehend the abstruse, I take a sip of my tea and prepare to play a song. The woman looks up at me, as if she is watching her only child's first piano recital. I lay my fingers on the strings and begin to play. The small man and the small woman smile at me as I progress through the chords. The smoke dances in the air as if it was the music itself, swaying and spinning and swirling in every which way to the ups and downs of the song. The petite couple lay back. Every chord sounds clean and every lyric is a beautiful vagary. The hive mind of the room is calm and ignorant to everything that remains outside of the moment. The music puts me in a place I've never been before and the constant flow of beauty is inextinguishable.

As I play the final note after singing the final word, I notice the two little people I had just met had vanished. I take the final sip of my tea and throw away the tip of my incense. I close the windows and lean my guitar against the wall before opening the door.

Getting muddy sucks.

"I agree"

You better watch out than.

"I will, don't worry"

So, are you going home?

"Where is home?"

It's wherever you want to be.

"I want . . . ice cream"

Than, the ice cream parlor is your home.

"But, I don't sleep there"

Home doesn't mean 'where you sleep'.

"I'm confused"

Thats how you're supposed to feel.

"Why?"

The only power anyone has is to think for themselves and declare what is real.

"But, real things are real"

Are you a theist?

"A what?"

Do you believe in God?

"Yes, something must be there. How else would you explain everything?"

But, do you KNOW God exists?

"Well . . . no"

Then, it is a belief. And that belief is everything you have.

"But, it's just one thing"

Everything is just one thing but, when it adds up all the little things matter most.

"Thats not what my parents say, they say to not think much of the small things"

Are your parents always right?

"No, they take away things and make stupid rules"

Should they be able to tell you what to do?

"Well, they are my parents . . . I have to"

No, you don't.

"But, I'll get punished"

Are you willing to set aside everything you believe in to not get in trouble?

"Well . . . no but, yes, I don't like getting into trouble"

Thats called conformation. Be like everything and everyone else. Following trivial rules. Do you like school?

"No way, schools stupid"

I agree.

"Really?"

Just because I'm an adult doesn't mean I conform to our societies standards. School was a horrible experience for me. I once tried to end my life because of how terrible it made me feel.

"School made you want to stop living? Thats sad"

It is. Because of our government, I was led to attempting suicide. Do you think we should let other people make us do things? Or not do things?

"I don't like it but, I can't change it . . ."

Yes, you can. Anyone can. We are the revolution, we are the people who will create something new. We will create a place where everyone does things by their own law, not any authorities.

"I'm too young to do anything"

You may be too young to be taken seriously now but, once you hit eighteen, you'll notice people taking you a lot more seriously.

"Yeah?"

Even when I was a teenager, no one listened to me when I spoke my views. People said I was weird and dumb.

"Kids call me weird and dumb sometimes"

And it's wrong. Words can destroy peoples lives. What do you think about people killing and hurting each other?

"I think it's bad"

I do, too. I think it's terrible. I have never gotten into a fight in my life. I wouldn't be able to handle it. To hurt another person is just terrible. But, I do not think imprisoning them works. I don't think we'll ever be able to stop people from hurting each other.

"That sucks"

Yes. Yes it does. Now run along, I bet your mother is looking for you.

"I don't need to be home until three"

You DON'T EVER need to be home. If you want to keep playing after three, go ahead. For now, I have to leave.

"Please don't. I like you"

I like you, too. But, I have to spread my message to others. I have to help us become less selfish people. I am no more important than anyone else. But, I am Jesus. And I am Gandhi. And you are, too. And everyone is.

"I am?"

Goodbye.

"Don't leave"

I know I should be taking a shower right now, but I really don't want to take this jacket off. Its just the perfect jacket. It fits me so well, its as if it was made specifically for my build. It has the most attractive combination of browns and its just wonderful. I don't have the self-control to take this off and go take a shower. Why do I need to take a shower anyway? I don't have anything to do today. I don't have a job, I don't have any errands to do. See thats why I hate waking up early, because I'm not like a normal person. I don't have anything to do. I don't know. I suppose I should practice that bassline for the song we're recording tomorrow. I don't really even wanna get out of this seat though. I do want to get another cup of tea. I guess I'll do that. Then I'll take off the jacket, take a shower, and practice the bassline. Sounds like a plan. See thats the only way I can get myself to do shit. I gotta be goal-oriented or I just sit there for hours and wonder what happened to the first half of my day. Wait, shit. I haven't eaten anything. I hate it when I remember that because thats when my stomach starts to feel it. I should eat some cereal. No I should make some eggs and toast. I need that hearty protein from the eggs or I can't even go about my day. I'll do that now. Before I take off my jacket, but after I enjoy my tea. I take my tea straight, its sometimes nice with sugar, but I like it plain the best. I'm a plain guy. I take my coffee black, my tea straight, my toast plain, my ice cream vanilla, my cereal corn flakes. I guess I just know how to appreciate the simple things. I'm not too sure why I'm like this. But I guess now I'll stop bothering you and continue my day. See ya.

“Hey man, my girlfriend's first day is today,” York says. York's girlfriend hadn't had a job in two years. She had been living off of her parents wages since her sophomore year of high school. York is a sophomore in college and Hannah, his girlfriend, is a senior in high school.

“Oh yeah?” Rick says.

“Yeah.”

“Whens she coming in?”

“At six, when I get off,” York and Peter work at a movie theater.

“So I get to be alone for six hours with your girlfriend of three months?”

“Yep.”

“Don't blame me if I try anything.”

“You wouldn't have the guts to try anything.”

“You underestimate me.”

“It really doesn't matter anyway because she isn't quite what I'd call your type.”

“I have a type?”

“Well you always go for the timid girl. You always go for the girl who isn't gonna reject you for anything because she doesn't have the courage.”

“Are you calling me a rapist?”

“No, I'm not calling you a rapist and you really shouldn't throw words like that around when a customer could come in at any moment.”

“There isn't a movie playing for a half an hour!”

Rick is tall. Rick is the kind of guy who you see walking around the city alone, wearing a wife beater, smoking a cigarette and howling at teenage girls.

“So what type of girl is your girlfriend,” Rick asks.

“I don't know man, shes more of the wild girl, I guess.”

“Are you tellin' me you bagged a slut?”

“Shes not a slut!”

“What else could 'wild girl' mean?”

“I dunno, shes very confident, you could say.”

“Is she a bisexual?”

“Shes not a bisexual.”

“I bet shes a bisexual.”

“Shes not a bisexual!”

“C'mon man, any girl thats that confident and you can describe as 'wild' has totally eaten some pussy in her time.”

“Okay, well maybe a few years back.”

“So you finally admit it, your girlfriends a carpet muncher.”

“Shes not a carpet muncher! Look, every girl experiments.”

“I bet shes the fucking scientist of scissoring then!”

“Okay, I'm not gonna just stand here and let you abuse my completely straight girlfriend.”

York is average. He is the kind of guy you see around the suburbs, always wearing a backpack and riding around on a skateboard as a mode of transportation.

“And I guarantee that she isn't your style.”

“And thats because I don't fuck gay chicks. When you fuck a gay chick, she gets some of her gay poison on you through your dick.”

“Thats completely fucking ignorant. I can't believe I'm friends with you.”

“I'm so sorry I'd rather not become a fudge packer, man.”

A man and a women walk in.

“Can we get two tickets for Awake from Slumber?” The man says.

York gives them their tickets and they approach Rick, who is working snacks.

“Can we get a large popcorn with extra butter?”

“Oh, and can I get the Milk Duds?” The girl asks her boyfriend.

“Sure. A large popcorn with extra butter and a pack of Milk Duds.”

“Sure. So what movie are you folks seeing today?” Rick asks.

“Awake from Slumber.”

“Wow. Really? That movies awful.” Rick says.

“I heard it was good. And Jessica over here absolutely loves George Christianson.”

“Look, let me give you some advice. Awake from Slumber is just another complete corporate ploy to recycle a story and take your money. Theres a guy who is incredibly materialistic and unsatisfied with his life, in this movie, played by George Christianson. Then he finally meets the girl of his dreams and she changes him into a lovable, sweet schmuck. Then they kiss, the end, credits.”

Rick hands them their snacks.

“Thanks for ruining the movie, asshole,” The girl says.

“Theres no substance!” Rick yells at them as they walk into the theater.

“Nice job ruining the movie for them,” York says.

“Hey, I was giving them good advice and you know it.”

“Yeah, whatever.”

“That girl had a nice ass though.”

“Come on man! Is that all you think about?”

“Don't stand over there and act like your Mr. Innocent. Are you telling me that you've never thought of cutting a hole in the bottom of the popcorn bag and sticking your dick up in when you take a girl to a movie?”

“What!? No! Of course I haven't thought about that! Only someone with a mind like yours would come up with something like that.”

“You know, you, like a million other guys, are in denial. You're denying your natural urge to want to fuck. You demonize pleasure!”

“I do not demonize pleasure! I love sex just as much as any other guy, I just don't obsess about it!”

“Oh yeah? How many times have you had sex in the last month?”

“I don't know, something like ten?”

“Goddamn. Your girlfriend is a slut.”

“She is not a slut! Its not like shes fucking any other guys. Just me.”

“Oh yeah believe that all you want, I'm just saying you can never trust a born-again heterosexual. They're always gonna have that tendency.”

“Yeah, whatever. It's my break. I'm gonna go grab a sub from the place across the street.”

“Oh yeah sure, run away from your problems.”

When you are a thousand feet high everything is calm. The breeze slightly brushes your collar and your hair is the seashore. Even on the warmest day it is cold. Your skin shivers and all of your body hair begins rigor mortis. You look down and you see the hot wheels cars and the lego men crowding around the little play city. My mother always told me that suicide was the weakest way to solve your problems. Maybe she was right, it doesn't really matter. I'm not concerned with how strong I am, I'm concerned with starting a new.

When my mother was a child she lived in a house in the suburbs, a big beautiful triumphant house, covered in flowers and greenery. But what stood out was a big beautiful tree that stood tall and strong. It was there to see my mother come home from the hospital when she was born. It was there to see her ride a bicycle for the first time, even after scratching up her knees. It watched my grandmother through the bedroom window die from lung cancer, with a lit cigarette in her hand. It watched my mother take up smoking at age fourteen. It watched my lonely grandfather stay in bed all day and cry. It watched my mother try to cheer up my grandfather. It watched my mother come home from graduation, with a big smile on her face. It watched my grandfather tearing up as my mother left for college. It watched my grandfather waste away his lonely days playing solitaire. It watched my grandfather die of a stroke. It watched a neighbor find the body and call the police. It now watches another family who happened to have bought the house.

I want to be a tree. I want to wake up and just watch an entire real-life soap opera, and try to understand the humanity of it all.

I can just wish that once I take this last leap that I will wake up in a different place at a different time. I can just wish that I will be happy for once. I can just wish that I can stop remembering my mother dying of the same illness that took hold of her mother.

So I just flick my cigarette down upon the heads of the barbie and ken dolls. I watch all of them stroll by. It is absolutely silent on the top of a skyscraper. I cannot hear the roaring cars, I cannot hear the obnoxious city people trying desperately to impress their friends, I cannot hear the advertisements, I cannot hear a thing but the wind.

With my mothers words racing through my mind, I reconsider for one moment what I am doing. But then I realize that no more can I disappoint her. She doesn't even exist anymore. I begin to cry.

And my father, I never even met him. My mother was unfortunate enough to have a one-night stand. My father didn't tell her his real name or that it broke. So I never will know who he is. And I will never know if he even knows I exist, let alone care about me. So I try to block him out of my mind. I try to focus on my job. I am a journalist, or rather, was a journalist. I interviewed people and wrote stories about them for this magazine. Nobody too interesting, but I guess I had the talent of making them so.

I hope I don't land on anyone, I'd rather not hurt anyone, but myself. I kick off my heels. I drop my sunglasses. I untie my hair.

And I jump.

The air rushes quickly and my long brown hair flips up. I once remember being told that a bowling ball falls as fast as a feather. From the mind of the bowling ball, its kind of hard to believe the feather would be falling this fast.

The lego people are slowly becoming real and so are my actions.

With mere seconds to go before my blood stops flowing and my brain stops thinking, I try to picture the tree in my mothers front yard.

Strong, triumphant, and covered in leaves.

I took the subway train to school every morning. It was depressing. Back in the suburbs I took the bus, but I was only surrounded by my own. I was surrounded by other 8th graders, stricken by shyness looking down at their lap the whole ride directed to their least favorite place in the world. Everybody was just as insecure as the person in the seat behind them, so none of us felt too uncomfortable in the same way as I am when I take the train. I'm surrounded by old men waiting for the death of their sad New York lives. I'm surrounded by teenage parents yelling at the kids that they didn't even want to have. I'm surrounded by black guys my age, fully confident in themselves, making fun of the old guys for no reason. So, I feel uncomfortable, but not always.

Sometimes taking the train in the morning is peaceful. Sometimes everyones quiet and keeps to themselves. Sometimes barely anyone is there. Sometimes even nobody. The sounds of the the train whizzing by underground sounds like Mozart to me, and I feel completely serene. On the rare day where I am alone in the train car, I think about why I am alone. Everyone is asleep at 5am. Thousands of people lying in their beds sleeping. Business men, artists, criminals, drug addicts, stay at home moms, bullies, politicians, actors, babies, pets. All asleep in their beds. Everyone in New York joined by that thin thread. We're all so different, in ugly and beautiful ways, but we all have one thing in common. We all need to go to sleep at the end of the day. We're all asleep at 5am.

But not me. I'm on the bus early, to get my homework done or read some more of whatever novel is engrossing my life at the moment.

One day I entered the train car and sat down. I was looking down at my feet as usual. The Sketchers that my mom bought me the year earlier that I never liked. When I finally looked up I realized something. I was alone in the train car, except for an old black man sitting to my right opposite. He was wearing a pork pie hat and an old corduroy jacket. He had wrinkles. He was staring into space and had a peaceful smile on his face. I looked back down at my feet.

“Good morning,” the man said as he glanced at me with a smile, “don't you love peaceful mornings on the train?”

I look up at him.

“Yeah, its really nice,” I say quickly before I look back down at my feet with a shyness.

“It feels so nice. We're moving so quickly. There are a billion people above our heads dreaming about going this fast. We're living a dream, eh?”

“I guess.”

“Boy, let me tell you something. You best be appreciating this moment. This is truly marvelous.”

“We're just on the bus,” I say without thinking.

“Every single year I keep on living is the best year of my life. Life just gets better and better. Boy, let me give you some advice. You may just be on a bus but at least you're not dead.”

“Sometimes I think I'd rather be dead.”

“Now don't go saying things like that,” he said with a stern tone, “the depressions over boy, the beauty keeps on living. You need to 'member things like that.”

I look away from the man and look down at my Sketchers.

For the first time, I saw the Vans I'd always wanted.

At first riding the train was depressing.

But over time it became more of a fulfilling experience for me. I began to see the raw truth in every single person on the train. We weren't all merely joined by a single thin thread, we were all connected through a beautiful blue blanket. We were all the same fabric, the same color, the same length and width. We all were desperate lonely people trying to follow the treasure map to happiness, however we viewed it. We all unintentionally hurt people along the way. We all felt guilty. We all felt sad.

But I was happy. Because I knew we were all beautiful.

------------------------------------

Keep it to yourself, Jeremy. I don't want to hear your shit. You're just fucking complaining about nothing. Fucking go to your job and work, don't fucking call in sick and tell me how much you fucking hate it.

"And then Hillary just doesn't even clean up. What the fuck is that shit? I was left with the work she was supposed to do! What the hell!?"

I understand that you're upset.

BUT YOU'RE JUST GETTING FUCKING ANNOYING.

"Why don't you just get a new job?"

"Well, it's really not that bad. And I need the money."

If you don't fucking hate it that much, then don't fucking complain to fucking me about how you fucking were fucking stuck with the fucking work of some random fucking person named fucking Hillary that fucking works with fucking you, you fucking annoying bastard.

"Oh... alright."

------------------------------------

I don't like doing dishes, so Jeremy and I use paper plates and plastic forks. Pretend picnics on the floor of our apartment, littered with movies and newspapers. The stereo shoots a tone of joyfulness into the room. Our machine-gun stereo and its steaming hot metal edges.

We draw trees and benches on the wall.

A picnic has never been so great.

We stare into the larkspur pond where an almond duck sits motionless. The windows open. Its windy but the trees, also, remain motionless.

Peanut-butter sandwiches and hummus crackers.

"I love you, Jeremy."

He looks up at me.

"I love you, too"

------------------------------------

"What the fuck am I supposed to say to you? Am I supposed to say sorry!?"

I'm yelling so loud the fucking neighbors must be quite entertained right now.

"Well, that would be a good fucking start!"

"Why should I be sorry!?"

"You've been a general fucking BITCH for, like, the past week. I was just fucking waiting for you to get a little nicer! I'm fucking tired of always waiting."

"Don't call me a bitch. Don't FUCKING call be a bitch."

He sits down his water and fucking walks up to me.

He sticks his face an inch away from mine.

"Cunt."

I fucking push him back and run out the fucking door.

I need some fucking air.

------------------------------------

"Hey, can I get a cigarette?"

"Yeah, for sure."

He takes one and I light it up for him.

We can hear the music of an easily forgettable band coming from the building.

It's springtime.

The humid warmth feels incredible as I stare into the dark sky. The stars aren't out, but I know they're there.

I take a long drag off my cigarette and my throat feels a tad sore.

"So, did you like the last band?" Jeremy asks me, to break the silence he probably thought was awkward.

"Yeah, they were real good. The keyboards made it really fun to dance to."

"Oh yeah, I completely agree."

I take a short drag that makes me feel fantastic.

We finish our cigarettes.

"Hey, lets go back inside"

------------------------------------

The man sat alone at a corner booth in the restaurant, with a odd look on his face as he occasionally looked out the window.

He poured some cream into his coffee and began to stir. He stirred and stirred as if he was hired to do so.

The red, brown and blue color scheme of the restaurant did not flatter him well. He wore a green cardigan sweater over a white t-shirt. He wore black dress pants and old ripped sneakers. He glances out the window. Stirring and stirring.

I look down at my eggs and somehow all I can do is feel disgusted. But I must eat, so I do. The coffee tastes awful and I wish I had ordered orange juice.

Stirring and stirring, occasional glance- and suddenly food comes to him. He had gotten a bowl of rice crispies and an orange.

He doesn't eat. He glances. He stirs. He looks at his food. He glances, he stirs. He glances, he looks at his food, he stirs and stirs and stirs.

I stand up.

"Hello."

"Hello."

"I am Christopher. What is your name?"

"Lance."

"Hello, Lance."

"Hello, Christopher."

"May I ask why you keep glancing out the window?"

"May I ask why you've been watching me?"

I have no way of answering this question without coming off as a creeper.

"I don't know. I guess I have some sort of mental disorder."

Note: this isn't how I usually try to make friends.

"I think someones going to steal my bike."

"Why would someone steal your bike?"

"Someone stole my old bike."

"Here?"

"Yeah."

"Oh."

"Why do you keep stirring your coffee?"

"Mind your own business."

"Why?"

"I just don't really want it. It's bad coffee. And it's cold now anyways."

"Why don't you eat?"

"I'm not very hungry. Why didn't you drink your coffee?"

"It's bad coffee."

"Why didn't you eat?"

"I ate part of it... it wasn't very good."

He looks at his watch.

"I need to leave."

"Why?"

"Work."

"Oh..."

"Bye."

And he leaves.

I grab his food and bring it over to my table.

"If I might ask, what is your name?"

"I'm not sure."

The man puts down his cup of coffee and tries to make it seem as if he isn't paying any attention to me.

"You look as if you are a Ben. Do you mind if I call you Ben?"

"No, I guess. No. Yes. I just don't want a name."

"Why would you not want a name?"

"Because I'm me, not Ben."

"I don't think I understand."

"I don't expect you to. I don't even think I fully understand."

He puts out his cigarette in his cup of coffee.

He stands up.

"I think I am to be leaving now."

"Why?"

"I don't know. I think I must."

"Do as you must, then."

The peculiar man picks up his coffee and drinks down the rest. A wet cigarette butt lies at the bottom. He walks away as fluently as a professional dancer, and I feel the urge to be exactly like this man.

"Wait, honey, what did you do with your bike?" Mom says, with a finger extended at me.

"I rode it into the bay"

I did ride my bike into the bay. I would want to lie but, I feel too good to be dishonest.

"Okay, why would you do something like that?" she says. I think shes getting very frustrated, I can tell by her tone of voice. But, it's okay. For once, I'm not guilty.

"I wanted to. I needed to". When I did it, I thought, "Fuck inhibitions" but, I didn't want to say that to Mom. I didn't want her to begin getting on my case about cursing.

"Honey!? Did you even think about it!?"

I didn't think about it but, thinking was my problem in the first place. I thought too much and that was why I felt miserable. But, this new way of life, devoid of worry, devoid of inhibitions, is wonderful. But, my mother wouldn't understand this. Admitting that I did not think would destroy my argument, therefore I said:

"Of course. And I came to the decision that I should. So I did"

Mom sighs.

"Well, I'm not getting you a new bike"

"Thats fine"

"And it's not like you can get one yourself. You can't even get a job"

"Yes, I can, mom. I'm old enough"

She moves her eyes away from the floor and looks at me.

"Alright" she sighs again.

She walks away into the kitchen.

This new perception of life, this new way of life. I can't even comprehend how good I feel. I feel incredible. I feel free.

I am free.

        Everyday, I've been coming back to that vision: the beautiful man washing the window of my office on the seventieth floor. That beautiful, beautiful man, I wish he would come again. How often do window cleaners clean every window of a building, anyway? Hopefully frequently. I just want to see his gorgeous face again.

        It's just so hard: to come here each day. I suppose everyone goes through that same thing, though. Maybe I'm just weak. Or maybe it's just my goddamn husbands fault for always arguing with me over nothing. Perhaps he's just stressing me out too much. I really wish divorce wasn't such a long and expensive process. If I could, I would just divorce that bastard and marry that beautiful Latino window cleaner. Oh, why won't you be mine mystery window cleaner?

        I've been needing to use the bathroom for the past twenty minutes, but the window cleaner came at this same time of the day last time. I don't want to risk missing him. But I really need to use the bathroom. Do I have a bottle? Oh, what am I thinking, that's crazy.

        But I don't want to miss him if he comes. Oh, fuck. Um.

        Okay, I'll go use the bathroom. But be fast Mary, he could come any minute now.

        Relief is good. Always good. One of the few natural pleasures of life: bladder relief. Okay, wipe quickly Mary, we don't have all day! Rush, rush, rush.

        Okay. Did he come? Hopefully not. I can't see him out of the window in any direction, so either he came and left or he's just not here yet. Or maybe he isn't even working today. Oh don't be so negative. Maybe I should just do some work. That's where I am anyway, work, right? So I'll work. That'll keep my mind occupied until he comes.

        But what if I become too focused on the spreadsheet. Oh, fuck. I'll play minesweeper. Minesweeper is always good. Yes. Oh no! Three bombs touching this one!? Woah!

        Is... is that who I think it is? After an hour of minesweeper he finally comes! Oh my god! Oh! Hes just so gorgeous. I'm going to smile at him.

        He smiled back!

        Oh, well it looks like I have a memory to masturbate to tonight. I hope he comes tomorrow.

        What if he doesn't remember me?

"Something clever," someone says.

"Even more clever response," someone else responds with a laugh.

Some short paragraph about that state of things, possibly diving into a few more details about the situation at hand and whom the characters are and their individual goals and feelings.

"Something clever," someones says as someone else does something. Something about an action a character is currently participating in.

"Something meaningless to simulate human conversation," someone says.

"Something."

"Clever ending response," someone says.