Non-fiction for the Complacent

[There's an introductory paragraph here . . .] This, I couldn't ignore. Not because of anything about that night, though -- not how heavy the summer air was feeling on my skin; not how the startling resonation [better word than 'interrupted'] my devoted concentration to whatever mundane activity I happened to be performing at the time. (I wonder if, in reading this, he'll detect the irony.) I must have been wearing my pajamas at the time. I must have been tired. (I took the call, though, and I don't regret it.) I answered to a familiar New York accent, spilling timidly into my eager ears. [I'll give you the rest when I'm ready to.]

     I might have seen it coming. In fact, he might even have told me to expect it, but I surely can't remember that part now. Most of my past is a blur, come to think of it, and I try to tell myself it's best that way. However it came to be, I found myself suddenly thrust headfirst into an irreversible conversation, both a relapse to the way of life I'd spent the past three months striving to forget, and a glimpse into what the future might offer, if I play my cards right. There's no fighting his force anymore. I don't even recall exactly what formalities we exchanged on that heated July night. The implications were far greater.

     A day or two later, in a flush of desperation, I mustered all my courage to dial his number . . . to initiate the very sort of conversation that had driven him so far from me in the first place, so many months ago.

     [Blah, blah, blah, you'll see later . . .] As far as I could tell, he was gone forever. And as far as he'd told me, the fault was entirely mine. [More blah, blah, blah]

     [conclusion]


[sorry it's so unfulfilling. i truly do promise to continue a.s.a.p]