It’s that time of year again. That pesky Valentine is upon us, making all singles forget it’s not a disease and all couples suddenly remember they are so.
With that holiday spirit, I shower you not only with a dozen red roses but with my words (pretentious much?): the following is also an assignment from last semester, where we were asked to write something, anything, from poetry to prose, with New York as a character in it.
I chose to take a swing at fiction, mostly because I haven’t done so in at least a decade, and what better place to attempt it than grad school. And thus, this is a fictional short story. I repeat — contrary to popular belief, it is not based on a true story.
It’s not the “alien ate baby” kind of fiction, let’s ground it in some reality. It’s just not my reality. Not anymore, anyway.
Now that we’ve established that — eat up:
“It’s not like I chose to be here you know”
“Yea, I know. Trust me, this is not how I thought this would –“
“I mean, seriously, if they would just plow the fucking snow out of the way! God, you would think they would have figured out a way for man to trump nature by now, it’s just so –“
“God, Tom, could you tone it down, it’s not like anyone’s doing this on purpose”
“I have a shitload of work to do”
“P-ha! It’s not your shitload of work. I’m not stupid. And I don’t want you here more than you want to be here so just… just… whatever. I’m gonna take a shower”
Tom was standing by the window, peering down, his hands crossed loosely against his chest as if admitting defeat. She really just wanted him out, this stranger who was supposed to be nothing more than an anecdote to tell her girlfriends over drinks. Read more…