Monthly Archives: October 2002

Happier Times

     That day was wet. She was due to return from a short business trip to New York. They had only recently started dating, but they were already living together. She had a drawer. She had a toothbrush in his sink. She had documents on his computer.
     He was making lunch in the small kitchen with the groceries they had purchased last week. He smiled and remembered when they went shopping. He shook his head. He shouldn’t feel like this. Not this ridiculously happy.
     He looked out the single solitary window. It was a hard rain. The sheets of water made everything look washed out.
     The old house creaked and groaned and did a good job being disheveled and wet. It smelled like wet dog, which was remarkable because there was no dog. The house was definitely in disrepair, but the rent was cheap, and the location was convenient. He thought that maybe later they would move out and find an apartment together.
     He thought about the meal, and decided that he would make something special for her return. The extra steps involved would make the time pass.
     He was taking the quiche out of the oven just as he saw her car park across the street. He turned off the oven, picked up the umbrella and briskly walked to the front door.
     She had already started walking across the street. He opened the door, unfolded the umbrella, and met her in the middle of the street.
     She hugged him and rested her head on his shoulder. She squeezed him. “You’re warm.”
     Even though she couldn’t see, he smiled and squeezed back. “You’re wet.”

     Under the umbrella, they kissed.


To some of you, this may be old news.

I’m going to be participating in National Novel Writing Month. Basically, it’s a mad dash towards the completion of a 175-page novel, starting on November first, and ending on November thirtieth. For those interested in word count, according to, that’s 50,000 words. Which means that more than likely, I’m not going to be available for a good portion of November.

For more info and to join up, check out the site.


Well, why not? I’ve got a title, a concept, a rough outline, a few friends joining in the madness, a copy of Strunk and White’s Elements of Style, a coffeehouse across the street with outlets and no internet access, access to a laptop, and most importantly–a deadline.

I also figure that if I actually do complete this, I’ll purchase myself a Palm Tungsten as a gift to myself. If I don’t make it, at least I tried. I’ll keep everyone up to date here with wordcount and occasionally some excerpts.

A simple game

     She looked at me, puzzled.
     “Why?” she asked. “Why do you still talk to me?”
     She had put me in a difficult position. I could probably sink the four off of the one, if I hit lightly enough. Line up the shot. Remember to breathe. Bend the knees. Use both eyes. Keep everything in one plane. Lower left English.
     “I mean, I feel strange that you’re here.”
     Be the ball. Keep an even stroke. Follow through. Why do I talk to her? The four rolled towards the corner pocket and politely refused to fall in. I cursed. “Missed by half an inch. Your shot.”
     “You’re the last person I would expect to be able to talk to–and we’re here playing pool.” She paused, and leaned against her cue. “I’m confused.”
     “Why are you confused?” I asked.
     “Well.” She bit her lip. “I hurt you.”

     That was a long time ago. You never plan these sorts of things. They just sort of tumble together and people get hurt as a result. People get hurt. Balls get knocked around on a table. It’s the same thing.

Has it been that long?

I’m having a five-year reunion happy hour tonight. I graduated from American University in 1997.

I remember heading out to Kramerbooks almost once a week for dessert, eating above average food at our school cafeteria, and trying to make it through the week with ten dollars in my wallet. Now I’m heading out to Atomic almost once a week, eating about average food at the work cafeteria and trying to make it through the week without incurring additional finance charges. It’s amazing how much things change.

I arrived in this city a sarcastic young man. Almost ten years later, I have been hardened into a sarcastic man in his late twenties.

Here’s to my misspent youth.