Just a Sunday Lunch

     Kyle watched as his girlfriend of four years gorged herself on a half-pound cheeseburger and french fries.
     This is the girl I love, he thought.  Then he looked to the table of four younger, thinner women across the restaurant.  He wondered if, at twenty-eight, he was too old to talk to them.
     Not that he would do it, with Rebecca present.
     Not that he would do it, at all.
     The women wore college-labeled clothing, which led Kyle to presume they were, at most, nine years younger than he.  All were local.  One was branded with the mark of Cabrini, another with that of Eastern.  Two bore the marks of Villanova.  They were happy and care-free, chatting and laughing between bites of Flippin’ Jack’s famous burgers.
     That was all that Kyle wanted, to be happy and care-free.  What more could one ask for?

Letting Go is the Hardest Thing

It was impossible to know, then, how much I would come to love her (now).
Sometimes I close my eyes and all I see is her face.
Those captivating eyes, that radiant smile.
And her laugh!
God I miss that laugh.
If that laugh could be the last thing I hear before I die, well…
I might realize something is off.

A Modern Day Christopher Columbus

I

      In an effort to "find himself" after college, Ralph Cole packed his Volkswagen Golf and headed cross-country from New Jersey to California.  He relinquished all ties to the modern world; even suspended his Facebook account. 
     Somewhere around the Grand Canyon, Ralph took a wrong turn and fell off the face of the earth.

Online Fairytales

    Man, twenty-four, seeking Woman, age twenty to twenty-six.
    Within fifty miles of Salistown, Connecticut. 
    Preferably of slender build. 
    Preferably educated. 
    Non-smoker, No drugs, No kids. 
    Must be seeking a committed relationship. 
    Must have a sense of humor (because I’m concerned this website is a joke).

    I never thought I’d turn to the world of online dating.  Something about it just seems so unnatural, so… desperate?  I thought (if I can’t meet a girl in the “real” world) there must be something wrong with me.  Maybe I’m old fashioned.  Maybe I’m naïve.  I watched too many Disney movies as a child.  (Thanks Mom.  Thanks Walt.)  I went to college and learned all there is to know about biology- except how to pick up women. 
    Maybe there’s nothing wrong with me; and it’s the world that’s messed up.
    Even so, adapt or die, right?

Ghosts of Dresden

     Phil and Carol Steinman stood in the hallway, outside the hospital nursery- Phil in his favorite blue tweed suit, Carol in her favorite floral day dress.  They looked through the glass partition on the wall, at the bassinets and the newborn life they carried.  Some of the infants slept peacefully, exhausted by the existential journey they had made.  Others fussed and moved about- little legs kicking, tiny arms twitching; their fists closed tight, gripping.  Just gripping.  With each cry, they seemed to yell out, “I’m here!  I’m here!  Why?  Why?”  Few seemed content, in consciousness, watching the mobiles above their heads spin in circles. 
     Carol’s eyes gooed and gahed.  Phil’s, not so much. 
     “You know, I don’t see how anyone on this earth would want to reproduce,” he said.

Post-Traumatic Jim Fischer

    Jim Fischer started going crazy, as many veterans did, sometime after returning from the Vietnam War.
    In other words, Jim had become a cliché. 
    To elaborate on the cliché, it should be mentioned, Jim went crazy without having experienced any of the significant wartime traumas that so affected his comrades.  He never saw a second of combat.  He never even saw a human casualty of the war.  What he had seen, in his six months of “service,” was how an M60 machine gun could blow apart a wild boar.  His squad commander had mistaken it for a Viet-Cong. 
    His squad commander was high on cocaine. 
    Jim was high on marijuana. 
    Everyone in the squad was high on something; and they were high because they were either paranoid or bored.