Those Fleeting Moments

During that long hot summer there was always a house to drink at. Boisterous, drunken affairs that always seemed to wind down to quiet conversations in small, shadowy corners. The air that hung over everything seemed dark and heavy.

She attended a few of the parties that summer but he never paid her much attention. One night he stumbled upon her as he stepped outside to take a piss. She was seated on a quiet back patio and she invited him to sit with her. They talked and got drunk as the warm night slowly cooled.

They eventually made their way inside to a smattering of bodies lazily draped across each other on couches, beds and floors. In a front room they held each other close and caressed one another until dawn broke pale through a picture window and he heard her snoring in his arms.

Over the next few months she was vigilant to be with him.

They sat outside her apartment one rainy night and he told her things he never told anyone. She held him and stroked his shaved head as the rain beat on the hood of the car. The windows fogged and their breaths steamed in the cool humidity.

Eventually she gave up on him and those meaningful yet fleeting emotions that seemed just out reach. She was the first person that gave him hope and made him believe in something bigger. His gratitude dissipated into the ether and he hoped she understood how much those fleeting moments meant to him.

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Comforting Cold

He awoke in dark bedroom laying in a heap next to a passed out girl he had never met before. They were both clothed, which was disappointing. He attempted to rouse her to ask her where they were. She didn’t move. He checked to see if she was still breathing and then stumbled out of the room and into the chaos of a raging party.

The apartment was small and packed with people. Music blasted making it difficult to think clearly. Smoke hung at eye level like an ominous fog. Around him he saw familiar faces. His body felt heavy, like a gravitational shift occurred the moment he walked out of the bedroom.

He made his way outside to a biting yet comforting cold. He walked down stairs and was surprised to see snow covering a vast parking lot. The flakes fell softly and quietly and the party became distant.

The quiet was almost deafening. He couldn’t tell if his ears were ringing from the party or from the silence. He trudged along in the snow and found his way to the street. It was deserted in both directions and the street lights cast a haunting glow over the white landscape.

He walked down the middle of the street for a long time, his feet crunching with each step. He fumbled in his pocket for a cigarette and lit it. He took a long drag and spit, his saliva seemingly freezing before it the ground.

He then cursed as he tried to remember what happened to his coat.

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Slave To The Grind

I have been hard pressed to find time to post to the MB recently as work has me busier than a Wall Street coke dealer in 1988. While working for a small company is a better place for me to exist professionally, socially and creatively, it also has its drawbacks. Like accountability and less free time to surf the internet for a directory of bare celebrity crotch shots. Last week’s addition of a young, fire-balling web designer to the team should alleviate the current production logjam resulting in me getting home at a reasonable hour to conjure up a semi-witty post.

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Justify My Slack

My new year started the exact same way my past six did; I was intoxicated, somebody passed me a glass, glasses or bottle of cheap champagne and somebody in my general vicinity kissed my face. My job has kept me busier than your mother in a roomful of horny sailors waving one-dollar bills and cucumbers. I usually come home from work burned out. I just want to eat a plate of tacos, play a few games of NHL 2002, watch some smut and then go upstairs to bed and fall asleep without incident.

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