Sometimes, the inspiration for a story comes so suddenly and so vividly that I fear it will disappear just as completely and without warning. More often than not it begins with the shadow of a memory that changes and becomes something new, something fictional. Such an idea was born in me a few days ago, and I've been in its grip ever since.
What follows is the smallest piece of a larger piece that I'm adding to the tentatively titled "Dark Days" (read another excerpt here), which I think I started around 10 years ago.
They stood there for a few silent minutes just blowing smoke. The whole time, Dan was trying to think of some way to break the silence, preferably by saying something that would make himself seem interesting. "She might come back." He immediately regretted choosing this particular subject.
"What?"
"Do you come here often?"
"No. What did you just say?"
Dan just shrugged and forced a half smile. "Nothing important." He didn’t take himself so seriously that he couldn’t see some small bit of humor in the start of what would likely be a rather awkward conversation, probably the last conversation he would have with Krissy.
She walked over to one of the other smokers in the alley, a big guy who was under dressed for the slight chill in the night air. "Excuse me," she said. "Can I ask you a question?"
"Ehyeah, sure," he said, putting a cloud of smoke into the air above him.
"Let’s say you see your neighbor’s girlfriend walk out of his apartment carrying a box with a houseplant, a heavy jacket (in April, mind you), and half a dozen records. Is she coming back, or are they done?"
"Oh, they’re over."
Dan shrugged. Perhaps, the finality of what had happened with Samantha would make the whole recovery process easier. At least there would be no messy in between period where he would attempt to give chase while having all of his efforts redirected into some ambiguously temporary arrangement of friendship involving him being the token outsider in whatever new social circle offered up the new man she was probably seeing. For better or worse—probably better—there would be no room for speculation or confusion or even second chances. Rather, it was simply finished. He would be forced to move on; not that doing so would be effortless or immediate. It could take a long time to move on.
"Hey," she said, pulling him out of his reverie. "You want to go back inside?"
"Sure." He tossed the smoking butt of his cigarette into the alley and stepped after her. "Then again," he whispered to himself. "Maybe not that long."
