He whispered, slowly clutching his hat. He held the key in his hand, but he couldn’t bring himself to open the door. How long has it been since he came back? It must have been ages. The neighbourhood has changed. While he still remembered some memorable places, the tides of modernism has also hit this sleepy little town. “Maybe a while to dry up might be fine,” He said, and turned the keys.

She had always been a deep sleeper.

So it would be fine if I opened the door a bit carelessly. She wouldn’t wake up.

The door opened when he turned the knob with a surprising lack of sound. “Someone must have greased it,” he murmured, and entered the domain.

Everything sat still, just as he remembered them. On the shelf, there was a picture of the two of them, smiling their toothy smile as two teenagers, barely out of high school, full of dreams. He stopped to look at the picture. “Still,” he said to himself, admiring her details. “I told her not to put such pictures out.” He stopped and looked at her deep blue eyes with a hint of green that always made you felt like you were drowning in them, her grey hair, the stupid black clothes both of us used to wear, the ring.

He unconsciously touched his neck, but nothing was there. “That’s right…” He said, a bit louder than he wanted. “I…” He shook his head and walked on. The floor was, he was sure, getting wet. He was dripping with water even now.

It didn’t require thinking, the act of finding the room he wanted. After all, this was his… home. Yes, if such a thing was still allowed, this was his home.

‘When a being that was supposed to be feared fears those who should be frightful,’ he thought, ‘then the would be feared is driven away.’ He thought much of his place today, where he stood in today’s society, and where he would belong. He could always stay here, he knew, but he did not want to. It would not be right.

‘After all,’ He mused, ‘the natural order of things are…’ He dried himself in the restroom, helping himself to the towel that hung on the rack. It was white and crispy, just the way he liked it. It was probably washed recently or untouched. He quietly hung the towel back and walked a bit further. He would use the back door. Maybe he would help himself to an apple. She was a accountant, but she never kept track of how much of what she had in the kitchen. “Then again,” he said to himself, “no one counts how many apples they have, do they…”

He checked the fridge and found it mostly empty. He supposed that it was because there was only one person to feed, but he found mostly TV dinners. “I always did the cooking, huh…” he said to himself as he gave up on raiding the pantry. He looked at where her room should be and found that the light was on. Was she awake? No, she wouldn’t be. She just slept with the light on again. ‘Still scared of the dark,’ he thought, and almost let out a chuckle.

As he walked on, he found himself reminiscing. It was here that he… no, he forced himself to stop. Beings, no people, like him are better off without attachments. ‘But then why is it,’ he asked himself, ‘that I’m unable to move from this spot?’ His hand was already turning the doorknob to her room, taking care to be as quiet as possible.

He doesn’t remember what he expected to find on her bed. Maybe a pile of books, as usual? Or the old opium pipe? No, then there should be the sickly sweet smell he was so used to in the air. Perhaps, he was afraid to admit it, but did he expect another man? Whatever he expected, he was refreshingly surprised to find a dog. It was lying on the bed next to her, and a couple of kittens accompanied the two. “Hey,” he whispered, holding her hand. There was still a chair next to the bed. She insisted on keeping it there. He sat, as he always used to, and squeezed. “I’m home.”

She didn’t wake up.

It’s not as if he expected her to, but she stayed asleep, mumbling about as usual. “I-I won’t be staying long,” he continued, “but I wanted to see you.” He reached into his coat and produced a pressed flower that he collected during his trip. “Y-you always liked the yellow Primula,” he said. “I’m sorry that I cannot stay any longer.” He leaned forward a bit, and brought the hand next to his forehead. He felt himself crying -or rather, he felt himself allowing himself to cry- as he let her hand go.

He petted the dog and checked its nametag. “That’s a good name,” he whispered. “You keep her warm,” he commanded, rubbing its belly.

“I-I’ll be back soon,” he said, leaving a small envelop on the chair. “I’m sorry that I always leave you like this.” He flicked the light switch off, and closed the door behind him.

As he left, he could have sworn someone say, “It’s alright.”

“Alone, I think,” said the Prince, “is better.” They both looked at the vast, expansive desert. The night sky showed stars upon stars, stretching forever into the eons whence they came from, timless yet so dated. They knew that they were looking inward into themselves as much as they looked outward into the night.

They knew that those stars were far away, too far to reach. They knew the light traveled so long that some of them outdated even this very desert.

Yet, these lights died in one. Simple. Sparkle. As if their only purpose was to be seen. To silently say, “Here we were. We existed.” It was this night sky they looked out into, and they shared a silent, yet insightful moment together.

“Why do you say that?” The pilot asked. This was as before, the night when they met. Only, they were both grown now. The prince had aged, and so had the pilot. Yet, both came here evey decade to converge. To affirm to each other that they existed. “Don’t you have your rose and your sheep?”

“I did,” said the prince. “I did.” I looked at his eyes. There was a deep sadness, like someone that had lost something terribly important. “But in the end, alone is better.”

“You still haven’t answered my question,” the pilot said. “Why is alone better?”

“Because,” the prince said, “alone means you’re responsible for yourself and no one else. And no one else is responsible for you or your happiness.” He paused to slowly get up. “And alone means no one is responsible for your sadness but yourself. A fox told me about relationships, but in the end, no one but I could learn that in the end, nothing but a deep longing stays out of relationshps.”

Then, there it was. A brilliant flash of light. Every decade. The prince was gone, back to his planet. And the pilot knew that that was it. There would be no more meetings.

Far away in the light sky, a light died quietly. And the light never lit again. It was seen by no one, but it still shone once, as if to say, “I was alive and I was here.” The light, just as the prince, was no more. And no one but the pilot noticed.

she said quietly, “people stop needing you.” She took the cigarette out between my fingers and threw it the ground, and with a gentle and elegant gesture of her foot, smothered it. “But that’s okay, honey. You don’t need to be like this.”

I whispered, not wanting to break the silence, “was looking at me, wasn’t he?”

I looked away from where the cat used to be, and felt foolish for talking to myself. “Wonder if it was lonely like me, huh,” I told myself, lighting my cigarette. Here I was, on a vacation, standing in front of a closed restaurant, by myself, taking a drag out of my cancer stick. “Ah, it came back.”

I stared, it stared, and for a moment, I felt as if it could speak to me. Like it was oozing the need to belong, like me. I slowly approached it, smelling of cigarette and bad food. “Ey, kitty,” I said, kneeling in front of it. To my surprise, it didn’t run. I was always bad with animals, so I thought it might run or something. “Do you like how I smell? I bet you do.” I gave it a soft rub on the back, and it rubbed against me with a pur. “Good gal,” I said. I checked for my wallet and finding it, sat with my back against the wall.

“Coming?” I asked, and the kitten scurried next to me. “Good gal.” I tossed the spent cigarette and lit a new one. “Like that smell?” The cat mewled and curled up on my lap. “Guess you do.” I sat there for a while, the two of us and no one else in our little world. The derelict neighbourhood was devoid of any light from the houses and with the restaurant closed, the only light came from a flickering street lamp. “You lonely too?” I asked the cat. Could it answer? Did it understand me?

It purred again, nuzzling against my belly. “Got an owner? I bet they miss you.” It didn’t move. “Want to come with me?” I asked, opening my car’s passenger side. To my surprise, it hopped onto the seat. “Well, whatever,” I said to myself, closing the door. I put out the cigarette and got in through the driver’s side, and started my engine.

she spat, “this place reeks.” She opened a window to let air in, waving her hands in a futile effort to make the smell go away. “H-how many of these bottles did you drink today?”

“Uh,” I sputtered, trying to count. One bottle, two bottles, oh hell, I can’t count them right now. They keep multiplying. “Too little?” I asked mostly myself, lying back down on my bed. It was surprisingly free of alcohol stains… for now.

“Too much,” she simply stated, collecting the bottles and tossing them out into the trash can. She came back and snatched the bottle from my hand. “Where do you keep these anyway?”

I pointed toward the ice box that had a guitar sitting on top of it. I rolled off the bed to reach for it, and she moved it out of my reach. “Guitar,” I said, sitting upright with my back against the bed.

“Oh for the love of,” she said, handing me the guitar. “I came here because I was worried about you, you dumbass.” She opened the blind and let the light come in, which made me spit out a profanity or a dozen. She closed it again and elected to turn on a small lamp, directing the light away from me.

“No one asked for help,” I muttered simply. Everything spun, but I still remembered this guitar like I remembered this room, old, familiar, and even somewhat a part of who I am. “Not that I don’t appreciate the sentiment,” I hastily added, just in case that was loud enough for her to hear.

“Of course you do. It’s not like you’ve got friends.” She looked about my room, no doubt judging the copious amount of books that and an even more guitar picks just thrown about the room. “Other than me, that is.” She squeezed my shoulder, which made me mess up. “Oh, sorry.”

“No problem,” I said, playing a familiar tune. “And the hours go by like minutes and the shadows come to stay,/So you take a little something to make them go away~” I sang out loud, perhaps off-key. I wasn’t ever sure when I was drunk.

“Honey, do all of us a favour,” she said, sitting down next to me. “Don’t ever sing when you’re drunk.” So I am off-key. Alright. I stopped, heeding the demand. “Plus, you do know that the song is about a girl, right?”

“I like the Eagles,” I stated rather childishly. I started playing Hotel California, which prompted her ripping the guitar out of my hands. “What?” I said, playing stupid to the fact that no one liked that song anymore.

“No more of that,” she rolled her eyes at me for the first time since she’s entered my room. “Have you been showing up to work?” Oh, now she thinks she’s my mother.

“Of course I did,” I said, “it’s in like, 12 hours.” I reached for the guitar, but she kicked it away. Buzzkill.

“And have you gotten ready? Have you slept?” Okay, mom. I’ll remember to change my underwear, too.

“No,” I spat, “don’t wanna.”

“You are going to bed,” she declared, helping me up so I can collapse on the bed, which I did. “And don’t you start drinking again.”

“You’re not my real mom,” I hissed, “Maybe like, half a mom.”

“Bed, now.” She reaffirmed, “Unless we’re talking about why you’re drinking so much.”

“I don’t care,” I said with a sigh. “Everything’s rubbish.”

“Sleep. Take a shower and take a walk,” she ordered, “and you’ll feel a lot better.”

“Don’t wanna.” I protested again.

“Okay, who is it this time?” She asked, “Someone dump you or something?”

“No one dumped me,” I answered. “Why would you think that?”

“Because you get like this,” she probed, “whenever people leave you.”

“Okay, so maybe someone did,” I volleyed back, “what’s it to you?”

“I’m your friend,” she countered. “I care.”

“Some girl. I don’t know. Thought she was into me.”

“Then?”

“Don’t want to talk about it.”

Then, she did something that I thought she wouldn’t do. She held my hand and squeezed on it, hard. “Well, then let’s talk about you. Like how you cared enough to get sad. How you were naïve but you were also sweet enough to fall for her.”

“What are you doing?” I asked, but I didn’t stop her. This felt… good.

She hugged me, which felt different from… her. The other one, the one that left. “I just think you need to find something that you really really care about. Something precious to you.”

“Something precious to me,” I repeated.

“Yep,” she said, turning the lamp off. “I’ll check in on you tomorrow about an hour before you go to work, okay?” With that she was out of my room, closing the door softly behind me.

“Something precious to me…?” I asked myself repeatedly, drawing a blank. I closed my eyes and drifted off to sleep, unable to remember the last time I slept without dreaming.

She asked, looking up at me, “you and I find that we don’t love each other anymore? Then you and I, what do we do then?” She fidgeted her delicate fingers about. She almost didn’t want to hear my answer, but I spoke up anyway.

“You and I,” I said, ruffling her pale black -almost dark blue- hair softly. “We’re detectives, aren’t we?” I smiled. “Then we’ll just find why and how we stopped loving each other, so we can fix that. Then we’ll go on loving until we fade away. That’s what love is, right? To allow ourselves to fix each other without leaving. To stand and wait until we’re both ready.” I ran my fingers through her hair, flat due to excessive hat-wearing, probably. “And we love each other, right?”

She nodded, grabbing my hand. “Y-yes, but…” She looked hesitant to ask, but I knew exactly what she was going to say. As to spare her the awkwardness, I put my index finger on her lips, soft and wet, trembling.

“But what if I left? What if you did? Then I’ll wait for you, as you will. Then when we’ve forgiven and forgotten, we’ll come back home.” I leaned down to kiss her. “Happy birthday, dear,” I said, pulling a small necklace out. “I haven’t forgotten, after all.” I put the necklace on her slender, yet long neck. Her dark blue eyes beamed as she touched the ring. The clock struck midnight. Then a very special day became another very special day, because, with her, every day is unique and wonderful.

She’s only seventeen with a heart-shaped scar on her kneecap. She would have ben pretty, her friend Catherine said, if she would actually try and do her hairs and such. She could even get a boyfriend! Only, Sammy’s done with boys. Sammy’s last crush had utterly used her, no matter how much she hates to admit it.

Now, Sammy has a girlfriend. Her name is Joann and she lives in Buckingham. It’s ways from Phoenix, Arkansas, but Sammy still thinks she can make it work. Her awkward and shy Joann. The subject to her fantasy as she touches herself. Her prince in shining armor. Her Joeypie. She hasn’t even seen Joann except for her face, but she still fantasizes about those blue eyes. Sometimes, she drowns in them as she dreams. She wakes up and cries because Joann really wasn’t there with her.

Sammy thinks of Joann every night when her mother yells at her. She likes it better when her mom hits her. Mother never says anything when she hits Sammy. Sammy retreats into her world where Joann holds Sammy gently and everything is okay. She holds her tears as her mother threatens to ship her off to her father. She won’t cry in front of mother. No, mother won’t get the pleasure of making her cry.

In Sammy’s head, Joann kisses Sammy and they hold hands as they listen to Wheatus. They’re just Teenage Dirtbag (Baby) but in her head, everything is warm and fuzzy. Her mother leaves. Sammy closes the door, and the noise excites mother. Mother yells yet again. She leaves again. Sammy’s alone. She closes her eyes and pretends that it’s all right. In her head, every mother beats their daughter and every mother won’t pay for their daughter’s necessities.

Wheatus makes Sammy happy. It’s their music, her and Joann’s. She wants to talk to someone, but she’s suddenly utterly alone. Joann had left hours ago, and her best friend hadn’t talked to her in over a week. She pretends that this is normal, too. Every girl in America has no one to talk to in her head.

Sammy’s curled up on her bed. She doesn’t know why it has to be this way. She’s just so low. She’s so sick of being sick. She looks at the razor contemplatingly. Maybe, she says, maybe. She cries until she’s sobbing. She imagines Joann. Beautiful Joann with blue eyes is holding her while she heaves. She’s so done with her mother. She’s so done with that bruise on her back. She’s so done with everyone. She doesn’t matter to anyone. Even her best friend ignores her. She’s only a minor distraction. Life would go on with or without her. She’s just a teenage dirtbag. She’s so done with having no one to talk to when Joann goes to bed. I’m sorry, she writes on her white desk, I’m so so sorry, Joann. She clutches the razor. She’s standing in front of the mirror.

Sammy lies on the bathroom floor. She feels her beautiful Joann, the warm and pleasant feeling. Joann’s clutching Sammy. It’s not warm anymore. Joann’s eyes. Sammy’s drowning. Her breathing gets more difficult as she drowns. Sammy smiles. Joann, she whispers, I love you. I wish you were here.

I’ve got two tickets to Iron Maiden, baby.

Come with me friday

Don’t say maybe

I’m just a teenage dirtbag, baby

Like you.

She said, sighing into the sentence, “One-sided relationship.” There was an awkward pause and she undoubtedly shifted the phone around yet again. We were on the phone for a good hour. Her ears must be hot.

Me, on the other hand, was on speaker phone. “What of it?” I asked while trying to get the stupid lighter to work. “Isn’t most anything I do one-sided anyway?”

There was a pause again, and she started talking. “It’s just… relationships ought to be two-way. I just… never did give you what I deserved.”

I chuckled. The lighter finally worked. “Spoken like a true annoyance from the other side of the pond.”

“Well,” she said, “I sometimes think it would be easier if we stopped talking.” There was a hesistation as she spoke the words, but I also sensed a hint of resolve.

I lit my cigarette, opened the door, and without a word, stepped outside, which inevitably left the phone by itself, which, in turn, left her talking to herself. Then there were beeps, then there was the quiet.

Then there was nothing but cigarette butts and smokes

I asked her bluntly. “Don’t look away or think I’m insensitive. You know as well as I do that this is a legitimate question.” I tried to appear cold, but it was hard with all the iv hooked up to me. Instead of achieving said goal, I must have looked pathetic, because she grabbed my hand hard and shook her head.

“Stop being silly,” she told me. “If you were to die now, who’s going to tell me to not spend over two hundred dollars on groceries?” The grip on my hand got a bit stronger and a single drop of tear she dropped on my hand left my sick hand with tingles. “Stupid. Don’t leave me.”

I opened my eyes. The light hurt, but it felt good to see her again. Her hair seemed to change color as light moved in and out of my vision. “That’s a bummer,” I said, “I’ve been having trouble remembering your grocery list, so I wanted a long break.” I managed a chuckle that came out as a cough. I decided -with my throat- that talking wasn’t our thing, so I shut up.

“The doctors are going to do surgery on you one more time,” she said meekly. “If you don’t show any signs of improvement, they’ll have to let you go.” I could feel her hand fidgeting in mine. It was a familiar feel, so I relaxed a bit. “Can you hear me?” She asked.

“If I couldn’t, would I answer?” I whispered. “Leave.” The voice, instead of sounding imposing and mature, sounded old and pathetic. “I can’t… I broke our promise.”

She let go of my hand, and for a second, I hoped she would leave. Instead, she sat beside me on the chair. I closed my eye, not wanting to see her upset. “What are you talking about?” She asked. I could practically see the tears in her eyes. Her soft sob filled the room and I let her cry for a bit. I heard her sobs and in my head, I saw her heaving in that small creaking hospital chair with her frail little body.

Heave, sob, creak, heave, sob…

I opened my eyes after a good minute or two, and turned my head all the way it could toward her. “You know why. I can’t give you infinity. I can’t just… cure myself for you. Can’t you see that I’m not the infinity you’re looking for?” I coughed, which I suppose was dramatic enough. “Stop, no. You’re being selfish. It’s my turn to talk,” I scolded her as if she was seven, not twenty-seven. “Look, I’m dying. I know it. Even if I wasn’t, I’d be crippled. I want you to leave me. I can’t have the only person that matters half a damn to me looking at me with sympathy all the time.” I know it was selfish, but I didn’t want her with me when I died. I didn’t want anyone. I came out alone, without anyone. So why should anyone watch me when I finally got decommissioned?

“You…” She said, and shifted in her chair. I knew what that meant, so I tried my best to look her in the eyes. I groaned and flopped until my eyes relatively peered into hers. Then, her eyes met mine and she must have seen what I really meant. Either that, or she was just sick of me. Either case was okay. “I see,” she whispered, and got up and left the me in my misery.

“Live well,” I whispered to no one. “See other people, you dunce. Don’t you fucking dare look back and think you missed anyone.” She was gone. I knew, instinctively, that she would not come back. That was fine with me. I spent the rest of hour looking at the ceiling and thinking. I thought of aurochs and angels, the secret of durable pigments, prophetic sonnets, the refuge of art. “The only damned immortality between the two of us,” I said, and fell asleep.

I woke up two weeks later with stitches on my side. Apparently, the removed a bunch of my organs and replaced some and just completely left some out. I’ll be able to function normally, but my legs were still completely dead. I would have to ride in a wheel chair for the rest of my life. “Um,” I asked sheepishly, “Did I get any visitors?” I was relieved and disappointed to know that no one had visited me. But the doctor nonetheless gave me a letter, unopened. “Dear Holmes,” the envelop read.

I’ve been thinking about us. About the infinity you promised on seemingly endless plains of Nebraska. I thought of you and how we met. I thought you and I would grow old, but it was you who grew old for me, and I thank you.

I think I’ll go away like you asked. I’m taking an editing job in London. As you wish, I won’t see you again. But whenever I see crippled old men in wheelchairs who, for whatever reason, just can’t seem to get themselves to be happy, I’ll think of you.

I think I’ll see other people and find that infinity not in infinity, but in pools of finiteness and in making things that last. Now, it’s not to say that I’m not sorry, but I simply think you’re right, as you always say you are.

I’ll still love you, deep in my heart, as you’ve loved the snow, the plains, the highway, and walking. I’ll still love you like you loved dead Russian Authors and alive American Economists.

I’ll miss you.

Your Arlene.

I put the letter back in the envelop the way it came out, and put the envelop in my pocket. “Thanks, Doc,” I muttered, and tried to get up. Finding this impossible, everything set in. I was a cripple now, and she was gone. I had no tears to shed for her because she did what she wanted, and I had gotten what I wanted. Both of us won. So instead of crying, I wheeled myself out of the hospital. The autumn wind blew in my face, and the sunlight shone on my face. It was sunny outside, and today was the first day of the rest of my life. “Viva la morte,” I remembered that’s what I used to say. “Because life’s too short to be not thinking about that last period you’ll put on that book you call you.”

as I stared into the night sky. The wind breezed through the Nebraskan Plains. The plains rolled before my -and her- eyes as a sea would. “It’s alive.” The mad doctor in me wasn’t good enough, I guess, because she just started laughing.

“All right, Dr. Frank.” She nudged me slightly. “It’s good that your mad patchwork plain is alive and all, but it’s midnight and we have no hotel or inn.” She tapped her foot anxiously and at that point, I knew that I had to either find a room or improvise.

“Well,” I said, “We can try this.” I took off my jacket and laid it on the ground. “There’s your hotel.” I threw myself on the grassy plain as someone probably did during the 30s and closed my eyes. “It’s June. I’m sure we won’t freeze to death.”

“What about the mosquitoes?” She asked, waving her hands around.”There are bugs here!” She obviously wasn’t so happy about this, but this was what she wanted when she left, wasn’t it?

“Did you run out of the repellent?” I asked. “You wanted an authentic journey? Well, here’s one.” I uprooted some weed, leaving a portion of ground bare. Then, with a trusty knife, I cut off enough blades of grass to feed an army of locusts and lit a fire. “Reach into my backpack, will ya?” I asked. “In the pocket, no not that one, dummy, the pocket. What else did you think I meant? The- the- no, I mean, yes. Now, hand me the beans in there. Don’t ask me why. Just hand me the damned Soy Beans.” I took the beans and crushed them in my hand over the fire and let the oil sift through the air. “Whiny baby,” I muttered. Knowing what I did was probably equivalent of magic to her, I explained. “Mosquitoes don’t like Soy Oil.” I turned the fire a bit to let the fume out a bit and turned to the side. “You okay?” I asked.

She was staring at the night sky. I don’t know if her pouting was because I called you a whiny baby or because I was especially being abrasive, so I kept quiet. “I’m thinking,” she finally said after what seemed to be forever.

“What about? You don’t do that a lot.” I asked jokingly. I didn’t turn to her to see her face, but I turned to see the night sky. Without the light pollution and the air pollution, the sky seemed oh so clear, and the stars seemed ever so bright. “You know,” I said, taking advantage of the silence. “The Indians thought the sky was a wheel and someone turned it to reveal the sun every day. And they thought -they thought- that the stars were holes in the sky-wheel.” The fire crackled behind me, and I could feel its pleasant warmth running through my body.

“Maybe they’re right,” she whispered. “I’ve been thinking of finiteness of me, of people, and of us.” She had her face turned away from the camp fire, but I could see that she was flustered. “I mean, here we are, in a field, playing boyscouts in adult skin, not thinking about anything but what we’re eating tomorrow. But are we going to do this forever? I feel like I’ll wake up one day, and you’ll leave me. I feel like we won’t grow old or I won’t see that wedding ring.”

“And here I thought you were getting more interesting and maybe existential,” I said. “Look, I’m 28, possibly alcoholic, and currently a freelance writer. The possibility of me leaving you, an emotionally and financially stable 25-years old with an editing job is slim.”

“So I’m just a job and a meal to you?” She asked. Her voice was shaking, as if she wasn’t sure of me.

“No, you stupid. What I’m saying is, me, a human wreckage that you love, have no one to turn to.” I lit my cigarette, and let it rest in my hand without inhaling. “I can’t promise you the infinity, but I can promise you what little I have.” I inhaled, then exhaled. “It’s a pathetic little piece of real estate in a vast wasteland of time, but you can rest in it forever if that’s what you really want.” I fiddled with the grass I crumpled in my hand, and made a grass ring as I once did when I was eight. I reached for her hand, and put it in her fingers. “Said you wouldn’t see the ring. Well, here it is.” I turned my back against her and pretended to sleep. Within minutes, I actually fell asleep, leaving me unable to hear her response. “And I’m definitely not Dr. Frankenstein,” I muttered, and let the little fairies paint my eyelids with a little western flower.