A Short Story.

I wrote this in a little moleskin notebook a few years ago. I found it tonight.

"Rhythmatick, rhythmatock."

"What?"

John looked up from his drink for the first time in what felt like days. Lost in contemplation, it was the strangeness of Tom Waits that broke his unintentional concentration.

"Oh well," John thought. It wasn't as if he had had a single concrete thought in hours.

Looking up at the time, John realized he was late. He didn't care anyway. It didn't matter anymore. She was gone.

"Still," John reasoned, "it's time to go."

After tossing a few bucks at his drink, he grabbed his jacket and stepped outside. As the door of the bar closed with a dull thud, John realized how cold it was. A little bit too cold, actually.

Nothing to be done though, so John pulled his zipper up to his neck and shoved his hands in his pockets. The fine brown leather of his collar rubbed against his chin with each step he took, the chilling air nipping at his exposed skin.

The city didn't seem to notice.

It was Saturday, and the club girls waiting in lines wore miniskirts and sparkling, desperately thin, tops.

No coats.

As John pushed his way through the crowds, he couldn't help but laugh at the way the girls stood next to each other, each shivering like a wet Bichon Frisé. The boys didn't offer their jackets either.

As John thought about the end of chivalry, he stumbled.

The mob of careless, drunken fools was beginning to get intolerable. John had to get away from the crowd.

Perhaps a side street would get him there faster.

What do you think?

To be honest, I can't remember what I was feeling when I wrote it. But now I find it interesting... and anomalous, since I so rarely write pure fiction of any kind.

Perhaps I should.