Mr. Cool

I sit down with a pack of cigarettes. I think about taking one, and then I put the pack on the table. I quit two weeks ago, have to make it a little longer at least.

I check the time. No point going out for another two hours, unless I want to get something to eat before the party. I have been getting a little chubbier recently, so I guess it will do me good to skip a meal. Besides, I hate eating alone.

Am I lonely? There is always plenty of people around, or at least as many people as there used to be, except for one. And yet, I feel lonely. I think one person makes all the difference. She makes all the difference to me.

She always thought I was tough, never shed a tear, never cared about anything. Well, I did care about her, it turns out. And now that she no longer speaks to me, I feel hollowed out. It is silly, there was never that much between us. We just met, went out a few times, and then our ways parted. Not the greatest romance of all time, just one of those things. Nothing to go crazy about.

I grab my coat, step out into the street. It is crowded and busy, nobody cares about me. I walk into a pizza place, people are eating standing up, the guy behind the counter is busy as hell. I wish I had a gun to pull out and show these people I am upset, but this is not a movie.

I order a slice, I start eating. Halfway through, I decide to throw the rest away. She would say “Don’t waste food.”

I am back in the street. I wish I had a bomb strapped to my body so I could end all these meaningless lives. I wish I had drugs I could dive into and come out a zombie so she would pity me. I wish I committed suicide and left a note, so she would read it and know how how upset I was.

“Hey, Dave,” somebody speaks to me. He is a guy I know from my previous job. “How are you doing?”

“I’m okay,” I say, and I immediately feel better, “You?”

We talk and all I can think about is I hope he never leaves. I hate being alone.

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