Slight

Malcolm strained his neck and fixed his posture as he stood in front of the sign, he had always hated carnivals.

The drive home was long and mostly silent. Between Malcolm's self-hatred and Audrey's guilt, the two had little to say to each other. Audrey apologized for her poor choice of destination; she clearly did not think it through. Malcolm gave a sheepish smile as he closed the car door and walked towards his apartment building.

Malcolm's night would prove to be sleepless. At 1:06am he fixed himself a drink, scotch and soda; he always liked the idea of drinking scotch, but couldn't stand the taste. Malcolm stared at his television screen, not sure whether or not he was actually watching something, his oscillating fan whirred in the corner. Malcolm's thoughts, like most nights, were fixed on a series of what-ifs. He liked to picture himself almost completely different. He'd keep his chestnut hair and his ironic sense of humour, but change most everything else.

The next day Audrey called and to her disdain continued to only be connected with Malcolm's voicemail. Immediately after she finished recording her message Malcolm was listening to it. By the third message her voice was harsh. She would say a great many things that later she would regret. Malcolm grew increasingly more fond of these latter messages, merely because he knew that she always thought those things, and Malcolm craved validation in any form. Over the last few weeks Malcolm had grown to realize that Audrey looked down on him in more ways than one.

A week passed since the carnival; to Malcolm it felt like one long hazy day. His perpetual stupor continued from that first night into the rest of the week. His cell phone's battery had long since died, Malcolm had already assumed he had lost his job, Audrey had finally given up after her twelfth call, and besides that no one else would probably call, and no one else probably cared.

Malcolm finally had to leave his apartment eleven days after the carnival; he had exhausted his supply of alcohol. It could've been the group of women snickering, or the teen-aged liquor store attendant who demanded ID, but when Malcolm returned to his apartment he decided he was much too tired of this world.

As Malcolm struggled for breath and his feet kicked around barely hovering above his apartment floor, it occurred to him that this would have been much more difficult to do if he had been taller.