Sometimes his hands sweat too much. He was self-conscious about it, too, and this time the thoughts that the moisture from his palms brought to his made his face feel hot. He was standing in by the counter in a guitar shop. One of the chains where they ran the A/C on full blast all damn day. It didn't help. It also didn't help that the guy staring at him from behind the counter more or less stole his girlfriend from him two months ago. The counter guy finally spoke.
"Brian?"
A rocker. An 'emo kid'. Obviously dyed black hair. Eyebrow piercing. He said his name like it was a punchline in some sarcastic joke he read in a lame email attachment.
"So how you been, man?" Counter guy asked.
I guess she wasn't really a girlfriend. More a less a friend he was trying to win over. Failed. Not enough time put into the project.
"Okay, i guess."
"Sweet." He looked down and paused. "Well..i gotta..go finish back there..busy this time of year."
"You know I slept with your girlfriend, you skinny motherfucker."
Somehow that came out of his mouth as:
"Okay. Seeya."
Brian bought a harmonica. He couldn't play harmonica, but had always had a notion to pick it up. It seemed like a reliable instrument, and something he could play along with his own guitar playing. He got his reciept stamped at the front desk, went out the door, and pulled out his fifteen dollar harmonica, which cost him exactly half of what the parking ticket in the windshield of his car would. His palms were still damp. Goddamn meters, he thought.
His drive home was uneventful, except for the burning building that was in the lot where his apartment used to be. Before you ask, it was indeed him who left a candle burning on his kitchen table next to the stack of yesterday's mail.
----
One spring, she started to lose her balance for no reason. She started to fall down a lot by the summertime. People at work were beginning to notice. They also noticed she took a long time to write her name down on her punchcard. "What happened?" They asked each other. She spent her lunch hours in her car with the radio off, looking at the speedometer. She died in September. She had a tumor in her brain the size of a baseball. The doctors and everyone you know said there was nothing anyone could have done.
----
He drew lines in blood with a razorblade across his arms to get attention. His parents sent him to a therapist and the kid admitted it was all for attention. His parents were relieved. They weren't when they found him ghost white in the bathtub one morning.
----
I can't sleep. I can't. I'm trying, but something is dragging me through the shallow waters of waking life. A consciouness which sometimes only seems to be a medium for pain. There's a hand i see. Its pointing at my regret. I can't help but look. I can't help but notice that the hand is my own.
----
It's late.
