No Refunds

"Why won't you talk to me?"

"I don't know what you want me to say."

"Just tell me that you still care about me. Tell me that you won't ever leave."

"I can't tell you that."

"But... you just did. On Monday, you told me you'd always be here, you'd always care."

"A lot has changed since then, David."

.............................................................................................................................

"So what does it do?" David asked the cashier, curious about such a seemingly unproportionately expensive product.

"Whatever you want, really. Cleans, cooks, talks, it's like having a maid, or a roommate that's tolerable." The cashier smiled, thinking about the commission he needed to put food on his table.

"What's the return policy here?"

"For this product you have only seven days to return it, but trust me you won't want to. No one ever does."

Saturday

David brought the box home, unsure about the possibility that it brought. He simply was a forty-three year old man who was unable to take care of himself. He needed help, is all he thought.

The box was large and cumbersome. It only occurred to him when he was already through the door that he could've just had it walk itself inside. He almost laughed as he struggled to catch his breathe.

David carefully cut the box open with the trepidation of a small child taking it's first steps. He wondered if this would be worth it. He wondered if the man at the store had deceived him. You can't trust anyone these days.

With the box now open David stared at the mechanical contraption before him. It stood at 5'3". It looked unfriendly and strange. It appeared to be in the vein of a human; it had two arms, two legs, a head, but something about it was off-putting. It was as if it was designed by someone who had never seen a human, someone who was merely having one described to them. All the pieces were present, but it was missing something. Some cohesion. David reached down to the floor and retrieved the manual that had fallen.

"Program start."

"Hello, please state your name." The robot's head lifted and it's eyes glowed. David was unsure of whether or not it was smiling.

"David."

"Hello David, it's nice to meet you. What would you like my name to be?"

"Emily." David said without even thinking.

Sunday

David woke up to the smell of coffee on his nightstand. The steam billowed from the cup as Emily left the room to continue on with it's chores. David sat up in his bed and grabbed the coffee. It took him a few seconds before he considered the lunacy of the situation, but the coffee smelt delicious and had just the perfect amount of cream.

David left his room after enjoying the coffee. He used the washroom and as he left he was startled by Emily standing before him.

"Good morning, David. Would you like me to make you some breakfast?"

David had to think for a moment. Breakfast sounded pretty good, but once again the uneasiness set in. He couldn't tell if he didn't trust this contraption, or that he simply didn't want to impose on its good will.

"Sure, breakfast sounds fine. How about scrambled eggs and toast?"

"Yes, I will get that ready immediately."

Emily retreated to the kitchen and David followed. His house smelled of lemon pledge and floor cleaner. The wooden furniture reflected the lights of the house more than David had thought possible. On the dining room floor a small orange cone was placed that read "Caution: Floor may be Wet."

In what seemed like moments Emily was serving breakfast. It was perfectly made and garnished with a daisy. David half-smiled and began to eat. Emily sat down at the other end of the table and waited.

Monday

David was getting used to Emily. It had become a great help around the house. Things were clean, food was ready whenever he was hungry. His house was starting to feel like a home again.

That evening as Emily poured David's tea, David just wanted something to talk to.

"Emily, how are you?"

"I'm fine, thank you. How are you?"

"Same old, same old..." David suddenly began craving something much stronger than tea. Emily brought him a beer, perfectly chilled. David continued to talk to Emily, Emily continued to listen and bring beer. They talked about politics, about the economy, about tv. But after three hours and several beers David didn't know what else to say.

"Would you like me to help you to bed, David? It is 11:30pm."

"No, I'm alright. Do you want to talk about something?"

"I want to talk about whatever you want to talk about."

David smiled if only for a moment. Those words seemed too familiar and they cut like barbed wire against his heart. He finished his last drink.

"Can I ask you something... Emily?

"Of course, David."

"Will you ever leave me?"

"I am unable to leave without your instruction."

"So you won't?"

"No."

"Can you say it."

"I won't ever leave you."

Tuesday

David woke up on his couch, head throbbing, stomach churning, swearing that he would never drink again. And there was Emily, standing by him, offering aspirin and water. David gladly accepted and already began feeling better. He thanked Emily and was sure he saw it smile.

David spent the majority of the day on the couch watching terrible tv. Emily continued to bring him food, drink, and whatever else he asked for. But shortly after lunch David stopped asking for things. He sat up and told Emily to sit down beside him. He put on the Jetsons, not because he liked it, but because he thought that she might.

Wednesday

"Dad? Are you home?"

"Yeah, Vanessa, I'm in the living room."

Vanessa shut the door behind her and entered the living room. She was taken aback by the cleanliness and overall order of the room.

"Wow, you actually cleaned?"

"Something like that."

"So how are you? Are you eating alright? I brought a casserole for you, you just have to heat it up, I could even do that before I leave. Or I could..."

"That's fine, thank you. I'm doing well, a lot better. It's sweet of you to be concerned though."

Emily cruised the hallway and caught Vanessa's attention.

"Is that what I think it is?"

"Yeah, it's great. The house is clean, I don't have to cook, I can just relax. She just helps me."

Vanessa suddenly was startled by Emily's appearance behind her.

"Hello."

"Hello?"

"I'm Emily, what is your name?"

Vanessa, tears welling up in her eyes, turned to her father.

"Are you kidding me?! We all miss her Dad, but this?! This is too much."

"I know it's strange, but..."

"But nothing! I've got to go, I can't... I just can't. I think you need some professional help."

Thursday

"I'm sorry David, I was confused."

"It's okay, it wasn't your fault. I should've known that would be a mistake."

"There were just too many voices. I didn't know who to listen to."

"I know, I know. I just thought it would be fun, but it wasn't so we won't do it again, okay?"

"Yes."

"Now, how about we play some backgammon?"

"I would like that, David."

Friday

"What would you like to do today, David?"

"I don't know. What do you want to do?"

"Whatever you want."

"Don't just say that. I want to know what you want to do."

"I don't understand."

"Just tell me, what do you enjoy?"

"I don't understand."

"Well, If I wasn't around what would you be doing?"

"I don't understand."

"Goddammit, just think for yourself!"

"Is that what you want, David?"

"Yes."

Haunted

We all wonder whether or not people care about us. Whether or not we'd be missed if we suddenly weren't around. Jack was no different. His days were spent contemplating how many people would show up to his funeral. Who would send flowers, who would cry, who would remember his name after six months. On a good day he could imagine a funeral with the pews full of grieving family, friends, coworkers, people who he never realized cared so much. He smiled as he thought of the casket being carried in and the tears streaming down the cheeks of the unabashed mourners. He could hardly keep from bursting with joy as he thought about each person walking up to his open-casket and placing a solemn rose as they said nicer words to him than he had ever heard when he was alive. On a bad day he imagined the box of his ashes arriving at his Mother’s doorstep.

Thus far, today had been an average day. Jack was simply working, nothing more, nothing less. He sat at his desk imagining himself coming home to an empty apartment. He would make himself a mediocre dinner and sit at his table staring at the empty seat across from him wishing he had bought a dining room set with only one chair.

That night, would be different though. That night, Jack would not be alone. Walking home from work Jack received a text from a good friend. All it said was "Don't forget about tonight..." Jack hadn't forgotten, but not due to lack of trying.

Tonight Jack had been invited to his good friend Bill's house for a quiet dinner party. Typically if someone invited Jack somewhere he would come up with any number of original and clever excuses, but not with Bill. Bill was the only real friend Jack had.

Upon his arrival Jack was disheartened. He wasn't exactly sure what he was hoping for, but this wasn't it. There were a number of people there that Jack didn't know. He felt uncomfortable, as he always did. It wasn't until a girl sat down beside him that he was able to find a modicum amount of comfort. She had come in late, dinner had already been served. She apologized profusely as she sat down next to Jack. She immediately proceeded to take the dinner roll from Jacks plate and eat it. Many would find this presumptuous, or at the very least rude, but Jack found it endearing. She apologized, stating that she was starving, he just smiled and passed her the pasta.

Jack and this girl seemed to get along for the entire night. This might not sound like an accomplishment, but for Jack it was. Bill took notice.Bill had known Jack for a number of years, since college. He knew Jack's idiosyncrasies. He knew that when Jack met someone new he would typically feign interest in their stories for a given time, then he would tell a bad joke, if that person laughed he would make up an excuse to walk away, Bill had never seen someone not laugh. Long ago Bill had asked him why he always did this. Jack responded that he was testing that person, that he wanted to see if they were just going to be polite or if they were interested in having a real conversation. Bill thought this was ridiculous, but Jack just said "You didn't laugh."

The girl didn't laugh. She smiled and simply said "That was terrible." Jack tried his best to keep his face from lighting up, he hadn't been smitten in a long time. For almost everyone who attended that dinner party they would leave content to believe that it was an uneventful affair, but Jack knew the truth. Almost every night is insignificant, nothing happens, nothing changes, but this night was the night Jack met her. How could anyone think that was insignificant?

The two talked for much of the night, however just as the party was winding down, she excused herself to go talk to Sasha, Bill's wife whom she worked with. Jack took this opportunity to talk with Bill. Bill was quite happy for Jack, he had always wanted for Jack to meet a nice girl and it was just a bonus that she was friends with his wife. Bill encouraged Jack to ask her out, and when Jack hesitated saying that she probably wasn't interested in him, Bill simply said "don't be an idiot."

Jack was an idiot. As she was leaving he walked out with her, quickly putting on his coat to ensure they left at precisely the same time. He walked her home, six blocks out of his way, but he just kept telling her he was heading in the same direction. When she said "well, this is me," Jack froze in the crisp autumn air.

His timid eyes always gave away his darkest secret. He smiled, acted confident, some would even say debonair, but for those who ever looked longingly into his eyes they would see beyond the shell of a man that had become so competent at deceiving the world. They would only see a frightened soul clinging to the unlikelihood that one day he would finally convince himself he was the man that everyone believed him to be.

Jack looked away from her, trying to conceal that truth, but he just simply said "bye" as she scaled the stairs up to her doorstep. Jack took his long walk home as an opportunity to further develop his self-loathing. He told himself that he couldn't believe he let her go, that he couldn't believe he didn't even try, but the truth is he did believe it. Of course he believed it, at this point in his life it had become routine to let people slip through his fingers. Whether it was another crush, or simply a friendship he didn't put the effort into, Jack had drifted through his life making only tentative connections. Despite Bill's best efforts, Jack may as well have been a ghost.

Jack could ask Bill for her number, he could even ask to be set up, but instead he will decide to continue his complacency, to perpetuate his misery, to just keep haunting himself.

Them.

He was a hero without anyone to save, a coward without anything to confront, a life without a purpose. If he didn't try so hard to be happy, he might've had an okay life, but due to years of Hollywood films and classic literature he believed a man’s worth is based on his physical accomplishments.

He had purchased a gun, hoping to find some solace in his ability to kill something, but he didn’t. Of the three times he had fired the weapon, none had made him feel anything other than contempt. He purchased a scotch decanter set, but that sat in the corner of his apartment consistently full. His Armani suits turned heads when he walked down the street, but he was always more comfortable in jeans.

He is broken. Some part of his mind, the masculine part, must not have properly developed. He doesn't enjoy sports, classic rock, or large slabs of meat. He used to blame his intelligence. He thought of those things as barbaric, and he was civilized. That’s why he owns expensive suits, drinks expensive scotch, and drives an expensive car. But last night as he drove home in his $250,000 car, wearing a $3,000 suit, and drinking a $40 glass of scotch, he realized he was empty. He should have been ecstatic, but all he could think about was running his car into the ocean and being done with it all.

 He always thought “If I ever have a family, things will be better.” He used to think “when.” Hope is such a fragile thing.

The night prior to this one had hurt him. It was strange for him. His consistent apathy had been the one grounding force in his life. Something he could hold on to and remind himself he didn't need to care. He had been told by a dozen different women that he was a “dick,” or self-centered. One had said he was impossible to argue with. He didn't understand why that was a bad thing. He just looked down and didn't watch her leave.

All these women had come and gone without so much as a response from him. He’d consider being sad or angry, but in the end he simply chose not to be. They had their reasons, they were warranted, and he was used to being alone anyway. But this girl was different. This girl somehow managed to take whatever insignificant heart he had and shatter it. 

They had started dating a number of weeks ago. She was nice and seemed to get a kick out of his emotional detachment.  She liked that he didn't feel the need to express himself, that he was comfortable in silence. They were so miserably happy together.

Their relationship proceeded down the typical course. They spent plenty of time together. Between watching movies neither of them enjoyed and not talking, they were almost inseparable.

She was a waitress. She always said that pretending to be friendly eight hours a day was exhausting. That always almost made him smile. When they were together it was a storm of angst and indifference. It began as complaints about others. The driver who didn’t signal, the concession worker who wore too much make-up, the dog without a leash. But, eventually, her attention turned to him. He never left enough coffee in the morning, he splashed toothpaste on the bathroom mirror, and his jeans were too tattered.

He didn't care. Long ago he had convinced himself that words from other people are meaningless. She could yell at him for the most trivial of things and he wouldn't even bat an eye. He would just wait till he was sure she was finished and then redundantly ask her “are you finished?” She'd then always smile and say “yes, dear.” True love.

Their break-up was inevitable, they both knew it. Eventually they would get bored of each other and go their separate ways. The only question was how? How would it happen? Would he simply ignore her calls and hope she stops trying? Would she scream at him for drinking all the milk and storm out? The longer the two of them were together; the potential of the breakup grew exponentially.

It was a Tuesday morning after a long weekend. She had been staying over the last week while her apartment was being fumigated. The week was a haze. Never should these two people spend that much time together. By this time, they had both realized this. When he awoke that morning, he was alone. His apartment was empty. Her and her stuff had left early. He fell back asleep.

A couple hours later he woke up again. She was still missing. He wandered aimlessly around the apartment before approaching the refrigerator. He removed the orange juice and poured himself a glass. It was upon the returning of the juice that he noticed a note attached to the fridge door. It simply said “don’t call me.” He smiled, crumpled the note, and placed it in the trash.

A week past and he never even considered calling her. He had forgotten how much he enjoyed loneliness. The simple pleasure of silence, of no conversation other than a constant inner-monologue, of no need for a cell phone. For that one week, he was at peace.

She texted him on the following Wednesday. Her text startled him as his phone had been silent for days. As he read the four-word text he immediately wished he hadn't. “We need to talk,” was all that was written.

...............................................................................................................................

He wakes up lost in a sea of nausea and shame. His leather couch sticks to his face as he peels himself off and stumbles to the bathroom. He dry-heaves, carefully avoiding the vomit stained floor mat. He washes his face before heading to the kitchen. Shards of broken glass puncturing his feet as he walks towards the fridge. As he pours himself a glass of orange juice his mind wanders to what could have been. Sure, he didn't like her, but he doesn't like anyone. They could've made it work. Things would've been better. If only she had given them a chance. 

Starting Over

"I had my favourite dream again last night. You know, the one in the field."

"Tell me about it again."

"I'm standing in this grassy field. Alone. I'm barefoot. The sun is rising quickly, more quickly than normal. No matter what direction I look in there's nothing but grass and sky. There are no buildings, no highways, no trace of society or even humanity. I neither know, nor care, if there are other people in this world, the world is content to leave me alone. As I begin to run towards nothing in particular the field behind me catches ablaze. I feel the warmth behind me, following me towards the horizon. I run until my knees grow weak. As I fall to the ground the fire washes over me, cleansing and returning my body to the earth."

"Is the fire new?"

"A variation, yes. Sometimes it's a flood, or tornado, but always conceptually similar."

"Hmm, that's interesting. And this is your favourite?"

"It's simple, most dreams are complicated, this one isn't. It's peaceful. And quiet."

"Have you given any more thought to what we discussed last time?"

"You mean starting over?"

"Yes. Do you still think that's something you want to do?"

"I think so. I mean, there seems to be so little left for me now."

"It's a big decision, one you can't go back from. I'm not trying to talk you out of it, it could be really good for you, but I want to be certain you understand the significance."

"I do. You know what it is, Doc? I was thinking about it after our last session, it's the lack of surprise. I don't mean that I want people to jump out at me on my birthday, or for me to win the lottery, or anything like that, I mean that all the times that things have gone wrong, that I'm disappointed, I'm not surprised. I predict tragedy from miles away."

"And this is something you don't like?"

"Yeah, I hate it. Even if I have a really good day, like one that I'm actually happy, when I get home I know that it won't last. I know that the next day that friendly barista won't be working, that my boss won't take us out for lunch, and that she won't call me back. You see what I'm saying? I'm saying that I have no hope. And the worst part is that I'm always right. Time after time my pessimism is validated, so what am I supposed to do?"

"Give up. That's what you want, right? Just to give up."

"It's not giving up. I just want a second chance. Don't I deserve that?"

"That's not for me to say, but don't think for a second that this isn't giving up. It is. You're telling me that you're broken, that your life is broken, and you're either incapable or unwilling to fix it."

"Fine, I'm giving up. Is that what you want to hear? I'm just so tired. And even if I could somehow pick up the pieces and salvage this life, would it all be worth it? Even if I met a nice girl, got a new job that I love, started a family, in the end I'd still be me, right? So what's the point?"

"Alright, good. I just didn't want you to regret leaving yourself behind."

"Don't worry about that."

"So when are you going to do it?"

"Right after this, I guess. Why put it off?"

"Have you told anyone else?"

"No, who would I tell? My boss?"

"How about your mother?"

"You tell her. If there's ever a time where she comes looking for me, you can tell her."

"Well, that's it then. And our session is over. I hope things work out for you."

"Me too, Doc."

.............................................................................................................................

"Hi, can I speak to someone about starting over?"

"Certainly, sir. I can help you right here."

"Alright... I want to do it."

"Excellent, you came to the right place. ReBirth is the world's leading specialists in starting over procedures. Now, what kind of package were you interested in?"

"What are my choices?"

"There's our basic package, that's the most popular. Guaranteed a middle-class family in one of these very pleasant towns. Or there's the premium package. That one guarantees a high-class family, minimum $500,000 income, in one of the five major cities. I recommend the premium package for the best results. Of course, if money is tight than we also offer the procedure without any package, however the results for that are unpredictable. You could end up born into an abusive family, or any number of horrible scenarios."

"How much for the basic package? That one sounds nice."

"Oh, it is, you'll be very happy, sir. The basic package comes to $117,390 after taxes. We accept debit, cash, or assets at a 3:1 value, for obvious reasons we do not accept cheque or credit."

"Alright, between my house, my car, and all my money I should have enough."

"Let me check for you. Your hand, please... Okay, so the home in your name is valued at $277,553, your car is valued at $15,395, and you have $22,680 in the bank bringing your total to $120,329. Congratulations, we'll have you sign a few papers and then be on your way. Do you have arrangements for the remaining $2939, we do also offer bequeathment services."

"You keep it, consider it a tip. I think I signed all these right."

"Thank you sir, that is very generous. And yes, all the paperwork is in order. Now if you're ready please proceed through the doors to my left and take a seat in the chair. The technician will be there shortly to help you set everything up."

"That's it? Thanks, I guess."

"You're very welcome sir, have a great life."

Insomnia

The sullen voice of his unrelenting inner-monologue told him to turn around, to go back, but it was late, he was tired, and he had things to do in the morning. That night he lied in his queen-sized bed that was much too big for just him, and tried to sleep. Unsuccessful, he pondered the missed opportunity that flaunted itself within the forefront of his mind.



...............................................................................................................................

Jack was at home, reading, when his phone rang. Turning to answer it he couldn't help but feel tempted to just leave it alone and keep reading what was undoubtedly a sad, sad novel. On the other end of the line was Jack's buddy Roger, he was having an impromptu house-party. If there was one thing Jack hated more than house-parties, it was spontaneity.

Leaving the comfort of his favourite reading chair, Jack dressed himself, and before heading out the door, he took one last look at himself in the mirror. Content that he looked good enough, he left his home behind. Stopping just once to purchase the obligatory case of beer, he arrived at Roger's house fairly quickly.

Roger greeted Jack in either a very enthusiastic way, or a very sarcastic way, Jack couldn't be sure. Either way, Jack laughed and shook Roger's hand before scanning the room. Out of the eleven people currently standing in Roger's living room, Jack recognized nine, but only two would he call friends. Stepping into the gathering of overly-friendly people, Jack felt nothing but regret.

Surprisingly, Jack was quite adept at small-talk. He had mastered the art of feigning interest in the mundane life of the average person. Jack knew precisely when to smile, chuckle, nod, or delve into his repertoire of decontextualized responses. A "no kidding," or a "right on," was almost always enough to satisfy the requirements of Jack's side of a typical conversation.

The night continued on, as night's tend to do. People left, people arrived. Jack had become numb to the whole scenario. Stuck between wanting to leave and not wanting to be alone, Jack remained nearly silent in the corner. That is, until she arrived.

She was not someone Jack had seen before. Her short blonde hair framed her face perfectly. From his corner, Jack admired this woman, trying to recall the last time he had felt this way. She began to mingle throughout the party, Jack quickly broke off whatever meaningless conversation someone was having with him and made his way towards Roger.

Roger told Jack that Lilly was his cousin. That she had just moved to town. That she was single. Jack had heard enough. He left Roger and walked towards Lilly with the confidence and bravado of a much stronger man.

Lilly and Jack instantly hit it off. They laughed. They shared stories. By the end of the night Jack felt he knew Lilly better than he had known anyone, and vice-versa. Before leaving Jack asked for Lilly's number, which she gladly offered. Jack went home feeling self-satisfied for the first time in his life.

After that night Jack and Lilly became a couple. They fell in love. A year later they were married. They had kids. Two girls, Diane and Stacy. They grew old together, never for one moment doubting each others love. And it all began at that one impromptu party.


...............................................................................................................................

Jack remained sleepless in his oversized single-bed as he dreamt of what could have been. By morning he felt too tired to get up. He thought about staying in bed all day. Just wasting another day with loneliness and self-loathing. But something had changed within him. Whether it was the lack of sleep or the prospect of seeing Lilly again, Jack felt like a new man. He got up, he ran his errands just like he had planned, and, before he returned to his home, he stopped by Roger's place to get Lilly's number. 

That afternoon Jack sat in his favourite reading chair without a book, just his phone, debating whether or not to use it. 

Naïveté

"Just passing through?"

Tom was caught off guard. He had been perusing the chocolate bar aisle in hopes of discovering something to comfort him. As he looked over at the counter he saw a broad man with a grin that could make someone either uncomfortable or too comfortable. "I'm sorry?" Tom said unapologetically.

"Are you just passing through? You don't look much like someone from around here." Steve, the man behind the counter, said without any intentional hostility.

"I'll take that as a compliment." Tom was never very good at making friends. Since childhood he had always questioned the apparent need for them. When every other child was out playing soccer, or tag, or any other of the numerous games that kids play in a group; Steve was at home reading, or writing, or any other of the numerous activities that can only be done alone. It was this that prompted him into travelling alone. He thought maybe, just maybe, somewhere out there was a person that he could justify calling a friend.

Tom paid for his bag of Skittles that he didn't really want and he left the convenience store, indignant as always. As he stepped into his 1969 Buick Skylark he tossed the skittles on the dashboard realizing he was hungry, but not for sugar-laced sugar, but rather for a real meal. A small diner neighboured the gas station which in all Tom's travels he had certainly seen worse.

The waitress was homely and quiet. She greeted Tom with a moderately friendly smile as he sat down. Tom ordered a monte cristo and a chocolate milkshake, again hoping to enjoy some form of comfort in the favourite foods of his youth. The sandwich was underdone and the milkshake was poorly mixed. Tom left an adequate tip and took his leave.

Tom left the diner feeling unsatisfied and underwhelmed, typical really. His attitude did shift, however, when he laid eyes on his car. In one of his four once immaculate tires there was now a tear across the sides. Not a hole that might cause a slow leak, but a six inch rip that clearly was designed to send a message. He examined the tire closer, cursing, screaming at anyone who was close enough to listen, but most people either snickered or kept to themselves. Tom turned his head and looked back at the gas station, through the window he made eye-contact with Steve, what a prick. If Tom had been a different man, maybe he'd confront him, maybe he'd go over there and kick his teeth in, but he was Tom, so he cursed a bit more and called a tow truck.

The truck came and towed his car to the garage, as most tow trucks will do. A new tire with installation cost Tom nearly $300, plus another $200 for the loose bearing that may or not have been threatening his car's very existence. The mechanic was very kind to notice and fix this without Tom's knowledge.

Leaving the garage, Tom was frustrated, annoyed, losing even more faith in humanity, but mostly he was exhausted. The sun had long since set and Tom hated driving at night. He pulled into a shady motel, under normal circumstances Tom avoided these at all costs, but between his fatigue and the rather costly car bill he couldn't be bothered to find somewhere nicer. He approached the front desk with the trepidation of a bird with a broken wing. Any trace of a swagger he once had was now replaced by a gleam of self-pity and hurt-feelings. It only became worse when the elderly woman at the front desk told him they were full-up.

"Terribly sorry, hun." The woman yelled as Tom retreated from the lobby and out the front door. Those words rang in Tom's head as he slumped into the driver's seat of his car. Once a source of pride for Tom, this car had now become his only comfort. He spent the night in that car, it wasn't the first time and it certainly wouldn't be the last. His legs were stretched out along the dash. His arms folded across his chest. And his head was pressed awkwardly against the window. As uncomfortable of a night it was, it was exactly what Tom needed.

As the sun rose upon Tom and his battered pride, he couldn't help but wish he was home with his family. Never before had he felt so alone. It was this realization, that maybe he never experienced true loneliness until now, that forced him to plot out a new route, a route that would lead him back home.  Maybe he had had friends all along.

Crooked

If only for a moment, Johnny's heart sank, his mouth became unusually dry, and as he tried to think of what to say, all he could focus on was whether or not that tacky picture hung on the wall was level. She mentioned something about his apparent indifference, or his condescending attitude, but that picture, that unnervingly crooked picture, drew more of his attention than she ever could. Before she managed to slam the door behind her, he was desperately trying to straighten the frame. By the time she had driven away, Johnny couldn't even think of her name. 

As he wobbled the picture back-and-forth on the nail he began to become frustrated. The picture, for some inexplicable reason, was simply unable to stay level. Every few moments Johnny would take three steps back, confident that this time the picture would look straight, but every time he was unsatisfied. After ninety-seven minutes it occurred to him that the problem might not be this one picture.

Johnny was standing three steps back from his wall, concentrating. His wall had exactly eleven different picture frames hanging on it. He was not a sentimental person, but had always liked the idea of being one. The idea that someone cared enough about such trivial moments to display them like trophies intrigued him to say the least. These picture frames contained images of his family, of him and her, of whatever happened to be going on that day he had a camera. They now littered his wall, confounding him. He felt his heart pounding as he realized that it was not the one picture that was tilted slightly, but the lot of them. 

One by one Johnny adjusted the frames. Each one contained a memory that he neither wanted to remember nor forget. The more he tried to simply think about the frames and not about the pictures, the more crooked they all became. His breathe became more sporadic. Sweat dripped down his forehead. He felt feverish. After two-hundred-and-twelve minutes of minute adjustments and an obsessive amount of attention to each individual frame, Johnny stepped back three steps to admire his work.

Tears began to form in Johnny's eyes. Looking at these frames, and the pictures within them, physically hurt him.  It was unbearable. As he tore the pictures from the wall, tossing them around his living room, the tears that were once content within the confides of his eyes poured down his face. Shattered glass and splintered wood covered the floor beneath his feet. As he fell to his hands and knees the glass embedded itself within his skin. Palms and knees bleeding, he knelt over the pictures that were scattered about his room, contemplating if this is what it means to be sentimental.