"And at the end of the day
I hated sleeping alone
There's nothing worse when you're lost
And you don't want to go home."
Neil Diamond, 2008
"If I Don't See You Again"
PROLOGUE
A perfect summer's night in Pittsburgh. Well, not quite summer; summer still a week away. A perfect nearly summer's night in Pittsburgh. Well, not quite perfect; perfect still awhile away. A nearly perfect, nearly summer's night. In Pittsburgh.
A cloudless sky. A refreshing breeze. Where to? Henry's? Too soon to be back. Sonoma? Too nice to be inside. Seviche? Too crowded. Bossa Nova? Too trendy. Blush? Too frustrating. Backstage Bar? Perfect! Nearly.
Two lost young brunettes linger on the corner of Penn and Seventh. One smiles as I approach. My spirits rise.
"Excuse me, sir," she says. My spirits fall. "Are there any colleges in Pittsburgh?"
"Any in particular, or any at all?"
"Any downtown?"
"Duquesne and Point Park are downtown."
"Where do college students hang out?" asks the other.
"Not downtown."
Unfortunately.
"What's there to do downtown?"
Invite them for a drink! I don't.
"The Arts Festival started this week."
Offer to walk them over! I don't.
They thank me and set out. My eyes follow. Firm asses in tight jeans disappear around the corner. I should have invited them for a drink. I should have offered to walk them over. But I didn't. She called me "sir." But she smiled and they spoke. The start of a perfect night?
I.
Backstage Bar. I secure a vacant table on the outdoor patio. The cusp of Katz Plaza. Bourgeois bronze fountain, granite eye-shaped benches, framed by linden trees. Outdoor jazz concerts on Tuesdays. But it's Wednesday. No jazz tonight. Tonight, classical music wafts from WQED's studio. In a wine mood. A Chardonnay mood. The waiter brings the first.
I glance around, jotting down notes in a moleskin. Late-leaving workers await homebound buses. Early-arriving theater goers await pre-show refreshments. Walkers, skateboarders, bicyclists. Young, old, black, white. Suits and ties. Tattoos and piercings. Everyone reveling in the warm nearly summer's evening in the plaza.
My attention shifts to a stunning woman at a nearby table. Brunette, thirties, sunglasses perched atop her head. White blouse reveals a tempting touch of cleavage. Orange miniskirt bares smooth tan legs. Green sandals display pedicured feet with red nails. She chats with a friend, delicately balancing a glass of white wine between slender fingers, red nails matching her toes. Perfect!
Don't stare, look around. Pigeons and sparrows compete for scraps. A young mother playfully chases a young son. A middle-aged man skims the paper at an adjacent table, a dachshund reclines on a chair by his side. The young son races by, the dachshund barks. He sports a shirt bearing a cartoon frog. The dog, not the boy. That poor dog. The stunning brunette's alluring laugh fills the patio and my soul. I'm falling in love!
My glass is empty.
II.
"What are you reading?" the waiter asks, serving a second.
"A Moveable Feast." If only I could write like Hemingway.
Imagine Tatie and Hadley at La Closerie des Lilas, drinking Rum St. James and laughing and dreaming. Could a Jazz Age nearly summer's evening in Paris, have been as nearly perfect as this? A night like this should be shared. I text Bethany, invite her down. She's doing homework.
I respond, "It's summer! F homework!"
"Hahaha i wish babe!" Bethany replies.
"I guess I'll have to regale another babe 2nite . . . since my #1 girl is doin hw . . ." I respond.
"Im sure you'll survive hahaha!" Bethany responds.
Will I?
The temptress in the white blouse and orange skirt with the red nails is alone now. Here's my chance. I should ask her if she'd like to join me. I don't. She drains her glass. I should offer to buy her another. I don't. And there she goes. I gaze longingly after her as she floats away across the plaza. The girl of my dreams. I should have asked her to join me. I should have offered to buy her a drink. But I didn't. And now it's too late. A car pulls up alongside her. A friend? A husband? A lover? She climbs in, rides out of my life forever. She's gone. And so is my wine.
III.
Two already. How many more? Not sure. But first, a third. I call Max. We relive Henry's on Monday with Lisa. Blond and sexy and twenty-one. Into musicians and hockey players. Writers? Probably not so much.
"I'm not cool enough for your crowd," I explain to Max.
"You're cool enough. You're artistic, you're creative."
Maybe I could artistically create a girl who'd be interested in me.
"What about Bethany?" he asks.
"She never returned my call."
"The other Bethany."
"She's with Kurt now."
"You should have asked her out."
I didn't.
He suggests the craigslist personals. Where people barter used and unwanted goods? I'm skeptical. He urges me to try. I'll think about it. Another empty glass.
IV.
I should have eaten something. Three glasses on an empty stomach. Starting to feel it. The waiter delivers a fourth. A man passes by, stops and introduces himself. Asks if we met at a party once. We didn't. He goes inside.
Still drinking. Still reading. I glance up, my heart leaps. A new girl of my dreams has appeared at the same table in the same chair as the last lost girl of my dreams. Multicolored sundress, brown and green and yellow and white. Short, exposing long silky legs; strapless, exposing smooth bare shoulders, a tantalizing hint of her breasts. Gold bands around her wrists. Gold sandals around her feet. She draws a glass of beer to her soft lips, then brushes her long black hair from her heavenly face. I am so in love!
She drinks with a woman in white. A friend? A sister? A lover? She smiles easily, she laughs enchantingly. Mesmerized, my gaze transfixed. I want to meet her, talk to her, love her. A gust of wind rustles her dress, she uncrosses then re-crosses her legs. She's perfect! A perfect night! I'm out of wine.
V.
Sitting. Reading. Writing. Drinking. Is this my fifth? Mind darting hither and thither. If only I could write like Joyce. Thoughts drift to Alaska. Was I even there? Nothing but a memory now. Or was it a dream? Is life a dream? Is life real? What is real? Nobody knows. Let's drink.
The enchantress in the sundress just glanced over here. Or did she? She may have. Is my mind playing tricks on me? She did it again! I think. Maybe. She runs her hand through her hair. Has she noticed? I should talk to her. Maybe she wants me to talk to her. Could the same thoughts consume her? I definitely should talk to her. What do I say? I'm a writer, for Christ's sake! Write a goddamn line!
I'm blocked.
* * *
Evening running short. Her glass nearly empty. As is mine. Soon she'll be gone. I'll never see her again, her beauty a memory, quickly and irrevocably dimming. Take a mental picture, burn her visage in my mind. Something to hold on to. Remember every detail. Her face. Her hair. Her shoulders. Her legs. Her breasts.
Who is she? Where is she from? Where is she going? Why is she here? Is she as lonely as I am? I'll never know. On her cell, she giggles. Who is it? A friend? A husband? A lover? She hangs up. Talk to me! Laugh with me! I want to hear her story and fall in love with her and kiss her under the stars and hold onto her all night and wake up next to her. Then do it all over again.
She's paying her check. This is it. Soon it all will be over. I'm in love and my heart is about to break. She's getting up. Say something! Anything! I don't.
She's leaving. "O! Lost!" If only I could write like Wolfe.
And now she's gone and my heart is broken and I'm all alone. With an empty glass.
VI.
"Enough fresh air?" Charles the bartender asks.
"All the hot girls left," I mutter.
"No more eye candy. Just the homeless."
Indeed.
I quaff a sixth then survey the situation inside. A few possibilities. There's one in red. She's with a small girl in a gown and a paper crown, dancing and swaying and spinning to the music. Damn, she's with a guy too. Is that the dude who introduced himself outside? Was his name Tony? I don't remember. What a great song. Is this REM?
There's another in black. Another perfect pair of long tan legs. Short, reddish brown hair, a part runs diagonally from right to left. She belongs in Paris. Zelda? If only I could write like Fitzgerald. She chats with a blonde in blue.
Just one. The one in red or the one in black or the one in blue. Just one girl. That's all I want. Is that too much to ask? One girl to kiss under the stars. One girl to wrap her long tan legs around me. Just one. Head spinning. "I love you . . . I love you . . . I love you. . . . ? Who sings this song?
I finish my drink then stumble outside. There's the one in red and the dude who thought he knew me and the little girl in the gown and the crown. Basking in the warm evening under the nearly summer stars. The little girl still dancing, still swaying, still spinning. Her whole life ahead of her. Mine half behind. Drunk now. Time to go home. Alone.
* * *
I weave through the nearly deserted plaza. Giant granite eye-benches stare at me. Unblinking. Unsettling. I cross Seventh. Here is where the temptress in the white blouse and orange miniskirt with red nails, the girl of my dreams, climbed into a car and out of my life. And over here is where I caught a last glimpse of the enchantress in the sundress and gold bands and gold sandals, the love of my life, now faded into mere memory. And over there is where the evening started, the two young lost brunettes, firm asses in tight jeans, now existing solely in my past. I'll never see any of them again. I'll never hear their stories. I'll never even know their names.
I stagger down Penn in a haze. So many nights I've trodden this street drunk and alone back to my sad empty apartment ten stories above the tracks. Nights beginning with so much promise, ending in so much despair. Henry's nights. Sonoma nights. Seviche nights. Backstage Bar nights.
The night of Bob's birthday. Me and Max and Bob. Sam and Bridget. Don and Kurt. Jenna and Ruby. And Bethany. The night I met Bethany. The night Bethany met Kurt. Beer and wine and martinis. Henry's and Seviche and Bossa Nova. Back to Seviche, rolling down Penn in a wave, six or ten or twelve of us, laughing and shouting, and life was good. Then Ruby's boyfriend threatened to bury her and the men took it outside. But I stayed in and kept drinking with Ruby and Bridget. And Bethany.
Then back to my apartment. Max and Ruby, Bob and Bethany, Sam and Bridget. And me. We blasted Zeppelin and pounded vodka and Ruby announced she was done with men, she was going to be a lesbian and that was the greatest thing I'd ever heard. A perfect night! Until everyone paired off and I was odd man out and was left to gaze out the window, isolated in my own place with six others. And then I just couldn't take it anymore and threw everyone out and went to bed alone, bitter and distraught, at 4:30 in the morning. But until then it was a perfect night. A Kerouac night. If only I could write like Kerouac.
VII.
Do I have to go home? Glassy eyes peer through Seviche's window. Don or Kurt here? No. But that's Mandy working the bar. Mandy's so hot. Only 21. Long brown hair, haunting brown eyes. And those breasts. Perfect. Just one more. I slouch at the bar for a seventh. Mandy remembers me from the night I drank here with Kurt. Bethany's Kurt. We talked 'shrooms and Timothy Leary and Slash and the Crue.
I look around. The Bucs are on, ahead in the 8th. Another bartender mixes mojitos. Don't know her name. Gorgeous. Face of a Greek goddess, body of a Maxim model, long hair drawn back in a ponytail. I've seen her before. Where? Henry's? Sonoma? I don't know. God, just one girl.
Mind reeling, thoughts scattering. Why him? He's not right for her. Where's Heather? Come on, Freddy! Dammit, popped out. Noki in Ketchikan. Two weeks ago already? Anne. Married. Lesley. Boyfriend. Miss Samantha. Christina. Taylor. Whatever happened to Taylor? "You're so great!" They all say so. Then why am I alone? Double play, Bucs win!
Giovanni brags about his new album. Rock, not jazz. I wish I were as cool as Giovanni. I wish my name were Giovanni. Then I couldn't help but be cool.
"Hey, Mandy, where's Heather?"
"She's right there." She points to the Greek goddess/Maxim model.
"Not her. The other Heather."
"She's the only Heather we have."
She is? So confused. Maybe I should ask for Maria. Tell her Elliott is looking for her. Is this Keane? I love this song. Two Heathers at Seviche. And Heather at Sonoma. So many Heathers. And all so hot. There are no unattractive Heathers.
Another empty glass. Feeling dizzy. Not meeting anyone tonight. Time to go home. Don't want to. But it's time. Time to go to bed. Alone. Again. I should text Bethany.
"@ Seviche now. Got drunk 2nite and wrote essay."
"Kurt & I will probably be at seviche fri night."
"That does me no good. Read my essay. U'll c."
"Ok, send me a copy."
"When I finish. Goin home alone now. I hate bein alone."
"I love being alone. Im alone now and loving it."
"Don't ever wish 4 loneliness. There is nothing worse."
"I love it. Always have."
"That's because u've never really been alone."
* * *
One last drop of Chard. One last glance at Mandy. One last glance at the new Heather. One last glance around Seviche for one last girl. Just one. Someone, anyone, to smile at me and talk to me and laugh with me and keep me from going home alone to a desolate apartment and an empty bed.
Then into the dark, lonesome, not quite summer, far from perfect Pittsburgh night.
EPILOGUE
Home. Hammered. So tired. Collapse into bed. Alone. Again.
Tomorrow. Tomorrow will be different. Tomorrow will be the night. The girl of my dreams. The perfect girl. The perfect night. She'll smile at me and I'll come up with the perfect line. I'll ask her to join me and I'll buy her a drink. She'll tell me her story and we'll talk and laugh and fall in love and kiss under the stars. She'll wrap her legs around me and I'll hold onto her all night and wake up next to her. Then do it all over again. No more loneliness.
Tomorrow. It has to be tomorrow.
A perfect summer's night. In Pittsburgh.
There's nothing worse when you're lost
And you don't want to go home."
Neil Diamond, 2008
"If I Don't See You Again"
PROLOGUE
A perfect summer's night in Pittsburgh. Well, not quite summer; summer still a week away. A perfect nearly summer's night in Pittsburgh. Well, not quite perfect; perfect still awhile away. A nearly perfect, nearly summer's night. In Pittsburgh.
A cloudless sky. A refreshing breeze. Where to? Henry's? Too soon to be back. Sonoma? Too nice to be inside. Seviche? Too crowded. Bossa Nova? Too trendy. Blush? Too frustrating. Backstage Bar? Perfect! Nearly.
Two lost young brunettes linger on the corner of Penn and Seventh. One smiles as I approach. My spirits rise.
"Excuse me, sir," she says. My spirits fall. "Are there any colleges in Pittsburgh?"
"Any in particular, or any at all?"
"Any downtown?"
"Duquesne and Point Park are downtown."
"Where do college students hang out?" asks the other.
"Not downtown."
Unfortunately.
"What's there to do downtown?"
Invite them for a drink! I don't.
"The Arts Festival started this week."
Offer to walk them over! I don't.
They thank me and set out. My eyes follow. Firm asses in tight jeans disappear around the corner. I should have invited them for a drink. I should have offered to walk them over. But I didn't. She called me "sir." But she smiled and they spoke. The start of a perfect night?
I.
Backstage Bar. I secure a vacant table on the outdoor patio. The cusp of Katz Plaza. Bourgeois bronze fountain, granite eye-shaped benches, framed by linden trees. Outdoor jazz concerts on Tuesdays. But it's Wednesday. No jazz tonight. Tonight, classical music wafts from WQED's studio. In a wine mood. A Chardonnay mood. The waiter brings the first.
I glance around, jotting down notes in a moleskin. Late-leaving workers await homebound buses. Early-arriving theater goers await pre-show refreshments. Walkers, skateboarders, bicyclists. Young, old, black, white. Suits and ties. Tattoos and piercings. Everyone reveling in the warm nearly summer's evening in the plaza.
My attention shifts to a stunning woman at a nearby table. Brunette, thirties, sunglasses perched atop her head. White blouse reveals a tempting touch of cleavage. Orange miniskirt bares smooth tan legs. Green sandals display pedicured feet with red nails. She chats with a friend, delicately balancing a glass of white wine between slender fingers, red nails matching her toes. Perfect!
Don't stare, look around. Pigeons and sparrows compete for scraps. A young mother playfully chases a young son. A middle-aged man skims the paper at an adjacent table, a dachshund reclines on a chair by his side. The young son races by, the dachshund barks. He sports a shirt bearing a cartoon frog. The dog, not the boy. That poor dog. The stunning brunette's alluring laugh fills the patio and my soul. I'm falling in love!
My glass is empty.
II.
"What are you reading?" the waiter asks, serving a second.
"A Moveable Feast." If only I could write like Hemingway.
Imagine Tatie and Hadley at La Closerie des Lilas, drinking Rum St. James and laughing and dreaming. Could a Jazz Age nearly summer's evening in Paris, have been as nearly perfect as this? A night like this should be shared. I text Bethany, invite her down. She's doing homework.
I respond, "It's summer! F homework!"
"Hahaha i wish babe!" Bethany replies.
"I guess I'll have to regale another babe 2nite . . . since my #1 girl is doin hw . . ." I respond.
"Im sure you'll survive hahaha!" Bethany responds.
Will I?
The temptress in the white blouse and orange skirt with the red nails is alone now. Here's my chance. I should ask her if she'd like to join me. I don't. She drains her glass. I should offer to buy her another. I don't. And there she goes. I gaze longingly after her as she floats away across the plaza. The girl of my dreams. I should have asked her to join me. I should have offered to buy her a drink. But I didn't. And now it's too late. A car pulls up alongside her. A friend? A husband? A lover? She climbs in, rides out of my life forever. She's gone. And so is my wine.
III.
Two already. How many more? Not sure. But first, a third. I call Max. We relive Henry's on Monday with Lisa. Blond and sexy and twenty-one. Into musicians and hockey players. Writers? Probably not so much.
"I'm not cool enough for your crowd," I explain to Max.
"You're cool enough. You're artistic, you're creative."
Maybe I could artistically create a girl who'd be interested in me.
"What about Bethany?" he asks.
"She never returned my call."
"The other Bethany."
"She's with Kurt now."
"You should have asked her out."
I didn't.
He suggests the craigslist personals. Where people barter used and unwanted goods? I'm skeptical. He urges me to try. I'll think about it. Another empty glass.
IV.
I should have eaten something. Three glasses on an empty stomach. Starting to feel it. The waiter delivers a fourth. A man passes by, stops and introduces himself. Asks if we met at a party once. We didn't. He goes inside.
Still drinking. Still reading. I glance up, my heart leaps. A new girl of my dreams has appeared at the same table in the same chair as the last lost girl of my dreams. Multicolored sundress, brown and green and yellow and white. Short, exposing long silky legs; strapless, exposing smooth bare shoulders, a tantalizing hint of her breasts. Gold bands around her wrists. Gold sandals around her feet. She draws a glass of beer to her soft lips, then brushes her long black hair from her heavenly face. I am so in love!
She drinks with a woman in white. A friend? A sister? A lover? She smiles easily, she laughs enchantingly. Mesmerized, my gaze transfixed. I want to meet her, talk to her, love her. A gust of wind rustles her dress, she uncrosses then re-crosses her legs. She's perfect! A perfect night! I'm out of wine.
V.
Sitting. Reading. Writing. Drinking. Is this my fifth? Mind darting hither and thither. If only I could write like Joyce. Thoughts drift to Alaska. Was I even there? Nothing but a memory now. Or was it a dream? Is life a dream? Is life real? What is real? Nobody knows. Let's drink.
The enchantress in the sundress just glanced over here. Or did she? She may have. Is my mind playing tricks on me? She did it again! I think. Maybe. She runs her hand through her hair. Has she noticed? I should talk to her. Maybe she wants me to talk to her. Could the same thoughts consume her? I definitely should talk to her. What do I say? I'm a writer, for Christ's sake! Write a goddamn line!
I'm blocked.
* * *
Evening running short. Her glass nearly empty. As is mine. Soon she'll be gone. I'll never see her again, her beauty a memory, quickly and irrevocably dimming. Take a mental picture, burn her visage in my mind. Something to hold on to. Remember every detail. Her face. Her hair. Her shoulders. Her legs. Her breasts.
Who is she? Where is she from? Where is she going? Why is she here? Is she as lonely as I am? I'll never know. On her cell, she giggles. Who is it? A friend? A husband? A lover? She hangs up. Talk to me! Laugh with me! I want to hear her story and fall in love with her and kiss her under the stars and hold onto her all night and wake up next to her. Then do it all over again.
She's paying her check. This is it. Soon it all will be over. I'm in love and my heart is about to break. She's getting up. Say something! Anything! I don't.
She's leaving. "O! Lost!" If only I could write like Wolfe.
And now she's gone and my heart is broken and I'm all alone. With an empty glass.
VI.
"Enough fresh air?" Charles the bartender asks.
"All the hot girls left," I mutter.
"No more eye candy. Just the homeless."
Indeed.
I quaff a sixth then survey the situation inside. A few possibilities. There's one in red. She's with a small girl in a gown and a paper crown, dancing and swaying and spinning to the music. Damn, she's with a guy too. Is that the dude who introduced himself outside? Was his name Tony? I don't remember. What a great song. Is this REM?
There's another in black. Another perfect pair of long tan legs. Short, reddish brown hair, a part runs diagonally from right to left. She belongs in Paris. Zelda? If only I could write like Fitzgerald. She chats with a blonde in blue.
Just one. The one in red or the one in black or the one in blue. Just one girl. That's all I want. Is that too much to ask? One girl to kiss under the stars. One girl to wrap her long tan legs around me. Just one. Head spinning. "I love you . . . I love you . . . I love you. . . . ? Who sings this song?
I finish my drink then stumble outside. There's the one in red and the dude who thought he knew me and the little girl in the gown and the crown. Basking in the warm evening under the nearly summer stars. The little girl still dancing, still swaying, still spinning. Her whole life ahead of her. Mine half behind. Drunk now. Time to go home. Alone.
* * *
I weave through the nearly deserted plaza. Giant granite eye-benches stare at me. Unblinking. Unsettling. I cross Seventh. Here is where the temptress in the white blouse and orange miniskirt with red nails, the girl of my dreams, climbed into a car and out of my life. And over here is where I caught a last glimpse of the enchantress in the sundress and gold bands and gold sandals, the love of my life, now faded into mere memory. And over there is where the evening started, the two young lost brunettes, firm asses in tight jeans, now existing solely in my past. I'll never see any of them again. I'll never hear their stories. I'll never even know their names.
I stagger down Penn in a haze. So many nights I've trodden this street drunk and alone back to my sad empty apartment ten stories above the tracks. Nights beginning with so much promise, ending in so much despair. Henry's nights. Sonoma nights. Seviche nights. Backstage Bar nights.
The night of Bob's birthday. Me and Max and Bob. Sam and Bridget. Don and Kurt. Jenna and Ruby. And Bethany. The night I met Bethany. The night Bethany met Kurt. Beer and wine and martinis. Henry's and Seviche and Bossa Nova. Back to Seviche, rolling down Penn in a wave, six or ten or twelve of us, laughing and shouting, and life was good. Then Ruby's boyfriend threatened to bury her and the men took it outside. But I stayed in and kept drinking with Ruby and Bridget. And Bethany.
Then back to my apartment. Max and Ruby, Bob and Bethany, Sam and Bridget. And me. We blasted Zeppelin and pounded vodka and Ruby announced she was done with men, she was going to be a lesbian and that was the greatest thing I'd ever heard. A perfect night! Until everyone paired off and I was odd man out and was left to gaze out the window, isolated in my own place with six others. And then I just couldn't take it anymore and threw everyone out and went to bed alone, bitter and distraught, at 4:30 in the morning. But until then it was a perfect night. A Kerouac night. If only I could write like Kerouac.
VII.
Do I have to go home? Glassy eyes peer through Seviche's window. Don or Kurt here? No. But that's Mandy working the bar. Mandy's so hot. Only 21. Long brown hair, haunting brown eyes. And those breasts. Perfect. Just one more. I slouch at the bar for a seventh. Mandy remembers me from the night I drank here with Kurt. Bethany's Kurt. We talked 'shrooms and Timothy Leary and Slash and the Crue.
I look around. The Bucs are on, ahead in the 8th. Another bartender mixes mojitos. Don't know her name. Gorgeous. Face of a Greek goddess, body of a Maxim model, long hair drawn back in a ponytail. I've seen her before. Where? Henry's? Sonoma? I don't know. God, just one girl.
Mind reeling, thoughts scattering. Why him? He's not right for her. Where's Heather? Come on, Freddy! Dammit, popped out. Noki in Ketchikan. Two weeks ago already? Anne. Married. Lesley. Boyfriend. Miss Samantha. Christina. Taylor. Whatever happened to Taylor? "You're so great!" They all say so. Then why am I alone? Double play, Bucs win!
Giovanni brags about his new album. Rock, not jazz. I wish I were as cool as Giovanni. I wish my name were Giovanni. Then I couldn't help but be cool.
"Hey, Mandy, where's Heather?"
"She's right there." She points to the Greek goddess/Maxim model.
"Not her. The other Heather."
"She's the only Heather we have."
She is? So confused. Maybe I should ask for Maria. Tell her Elliott is looking for her. Is this Keane? I love this song. Two Heathers at Seviche. And Heather at Sonoma. So many Heathers. And all so hot. There are no unattractive Heathers.
Another empty glass. Feeling dizzy. Not meeting anyone tonight. Time to go home. Don't want to. But it's time. Time to go to bed. Alone. Again. I should text Bethany.
"@ Seviche now. Got drunk 2nite and wrote essay."
"Kurt & I will probably be at seviche fri night."
"That does me no good. Read my essay. U'll c."
"Ok, send me a copy."
"When I finish. Goin home alone now. I hate bein alone."
"I love being alone. Im alone now and loving it."
"Don't ever wish 4 loneliness. There is nothing worse."
"I love it. Always have."
"That's because u've never really been alone."
* * *
One last drop of Chard. One last glance at Mandy. One last glance at the new Heather. One last glance around Seviche for one last girl. Just one. Someone, anyone, to smile at me and talk to me and laugh with me and keep me from going home alone to a desolate apartment and an empty bed.
Then into the dark, lonesome, not quite summer, far from perfect Pittsburgh night.
EPILOGUE
Home. Hammered. So tired. Collapse into bed. Alone. Again.
Tomorrow. Tomorrow will be different. Tomorrow will be the night. The girl of my dreams. The perfect girl. The perfect night. She'll smile at me and I'll come up with the perfect line. I'll ask her to join me and I'll buy her a drink. She'll tell me her story and we'll talk and laugh and fall in love and kiss under the stars. She'll wrap her legs around me and I'll hold onto her all night and wake up next to her. Then do it all over again. No more loneliness.
Tomorrow. It has to be tomorrow.
A perfect summer's night. In Pittsburgh.
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