Note to the reader: This is a rough draft and that fact shows, as I work off of somebody else's freewrite. Coherence might be somewhat absent at a few points. I'll work on that in draft two. No, I am not not seeking or accepting feedback regarding this method of writing. It is what it is, take it or leave it.

Any resemblance between the characters in this story and actual persons living or dead is not only accidental, but really kind of sad. One might consider the virtues of therapy. Quickly, preferably without writing to me about it.



He wouldn't ask her to admit that she had lied. She probably hadn't even meant to, at first, but she had become defensive, caught up in a moment of anger, each slight embellishment coming to the defense of the one before. "Was it anger or was it shame?", he wondered. She had said too much to take back, must have felt embarassed by how little truth was left in her words at the end, but did it matter? His love for her would remain. He would believe her even when he couldn't, forcing his doubts down to where they could no longer be seen. He'd never let himself doubt that he'd made the right choice, not even if that choice had left him feeling hollow, lost silently in his thoughts about a reality he'd refuse to accept until it took the hint and went away.

As she looked at him, waiting for words that were waiting to be found, he looked at her hair, following it down to where it washed over her bare shoulders. "Do you suppose that those are all that she has bared, lately?", the unwanted thought coming as reality, like a jilted lover who would not be refused, nagged at him. But what a poor job reality did when a man wanted to keep warm, at night. "Is it foolish for me to choose her over you?", he imagined himself telling it, as if it had taken flesh. "She is surely more beautiful to look upon. Can I be blamed if I should prefer her charms to yours? Do you ever comfort me, ever offer a kind word?" She sifted her weight from one foot to another, eyes not so downcast as before. "I need to be whole, now." As if any words she uttered could bring him peace, could make him forget the questions he had about all of those nights when she'd been away, and strangely reluctant to answer her cell phone, suddenly muffled male voices in the background speaking for her with far too much eloquence. "What's that supposed to mean?", she asked, a faint, sweet smile chasing away the frown, and he had to admit that he didn't know. "Then why did you say it?", and again, he could not know, didn't dare, really.

Something within begged him to run, but his feet were anchored to the floor. He was stuck, trapped by her, longing to take her by the wrists before she got away, to bring her closer, to feel her whole weight upon his body and for all that, remained frozen below the neck. But at least he could move his neck, stretching it forward, toward her, hoping to hear her say what he wished to hear, whatever that was. "Maybe we should slow down", she said. No, that wasn't it."You seem to have a few trust issues and ..." "No", he broke in, "I believe you. If you say that you were out doing your laundry on a Saturday night, then that's where you were. I was just a little surprised, was all. Seems more like a Tuesday afternoon sort of thing to do. Saturday's more a day for ...", and he shrugged. "For parties?", she asked. He nodded. "For fun?" More head bobbing. "For sex?" No nodding. "Eventually?" A shrug. "Yeah, I guess, eventually", he said, blushing a little. That would have been cute, if it hadn't been so out of place, she thought. There was no innocence in him left to shock, of that she felt sure, and nowhere for this discussion to go. To talk about, to explain her choice of when to take care of her hand washables on a date would have been ... strange. Odd. And it would have left them with the subject of how she had kept herself amused while the wash went through, and why that other customer had found the door to the laundromat locked, so long before closing time.

She wasn't going to talk about one date with another. A lady didn't do that any more than a gentleman did. Men - men needed their privacy, too, even if they had to pretend that they didn't, and even with the five minutes of pounding at the end from somebody who wasn't going to stay locked out, that time had been memorable. Lights out, a forest of candles in the aisle between two rows of washers, soft, feshly picked leaves in a bed on the floor, rose petals atop them, a small feast in a basket by their side and and two trustworthy musicians that the guy had known from school. "They'd better be very trustworthy", she had said before that moment of truth, but they had been, taking not a peek as one played safely on his flute, the other arranging a mix of bird songs and the sound of leaves rustling. She had always fantasized about doing something in a wilderness of a sort she'd neve been able to reach, and in a symbolic sort of way, somebody had made that happen for her. It was a sweet gesture, for all of its silliness and she treasured that sweetness. She had even treasured the silliness and wasn't going to taint either with a breach of faith. Not one word from her lips to another, not a hint to help another guess at what that fleeting hint of love had inspired somebody to do. A hint that might be repeated, for it had lasted through a night that they had both taken leave of with great reluctance, not wishing to have the building custodian end it for them. She had been amazed that the door could stand up to such a beating.

She didn't want to lie to him, but one couldn't say "I can neither confirm nor deny that" on a date, could one? But what else did that leave but the choice to fall back on a maddening old cop out like

"It's a woman's prerogative to be a little mysterious," she said, inwardly groaning at herself. "Or to be insane?", he thought, still not convinced but still trying not to judge. As if that would have done any good. As if he had any right. "Short lines?", he asked.

"Beg pardon?"

"At the laundromat?"

"Yes, very short", she said, a little too abruptly for her own comfort.

"I guess that's the blessing of living as we do, watching the pennies dribble in from our royalties." "When they dribble at all", she thought, knowing not to say that out loud. He knew how to read a bank balance. There was no reason to invite him to dwell on that. "How's that?", she asked. "The moment is always ours. The rest of the world has to wait for Saturday. For us, Saturday can be any day we want it to be." "Then why did he ask about the laundromat?", she wondered, before wondering why she had wondered that. Where was the sense in pondering a question that she needed to avoid? "That's freedom", she said, completing what she took to be his thought. "And very practical, in a way", he said. "Not always practical", she replied, remembering the sound of the key in the lock, just as she and that other companion had swiftly composed themselves, before trying to explain the simulated forest floor to the unconvinced owner of the laundromat, as he came in. "How so?", he asked.

"I don't know."

"Then why did you say it? Oh ... mystery ... right?"

"Right. You're beginning to understand the ways of women, my good sir", she said with as much mock seriousness as she could muster. "My good sir?", he asked. "I got the phrasing out of Cosmo. You didn't think we learned all of that mysteriousness on our own, did you?" He looked ... disappointed? Annoyed? No, she thought - worried. "Kidding", she said.

"I know."

"You sure?"

"Yes, I'm sure. Why would you doubt that. I hope I haven't seemed ..." He didn't know how to finish that, but she didn't need him to. "You didn't seem very glad to see me when you came in, tonight, and you seemed really uncomfortable just now.", she said, hesitantly adding "We really haven't known each other for long, and sometimes I get the feeling that you expect so much. All worry in you, and no pleasure." Pleasure was one thing he was open to trying, and he was sure he was about the lose the chance. "Noooo ...", he started. "I wouldn't ... expect?"

"Wouldn't expect what?", she asked.

"I just wouldn't expect, period." She seemed confused. He could use that. "Expectations lie in the future, don't they, in that tomorrow that never comes? Always live for tomorrow, and one never lives at all. I'd rather forget about all of that and live in the present, wouldn't you?" A smile and a nod, from somebody who wasn't sure of what any of this was supposed to mean and doubted that he knew, either, but felt that if it meant that he was going to loosen up, that this would be meaning enough. No need to push it. "And the present is great, because there you are, and here I am, and we have a nice bottle of wine to share." "Two buck chuck", she asked. "No", he said, "something else." She started to ask about Gallo, but a quick smile and a shake of the head from him stopped the words in her throat, as he filled her glass. "No expectations?", he asked. "No expectations", she said, her smile brightening as she replied.

He was a strange bird, she thought, wondering when she had turned into her own mother. Who used that expression, any more? But it fit him so well. Look at him, she thought, perched there, so skittish, ready to fly away in fear at one moment, hungily eating out of her hand a second later, not knowing whether to timidly withdraw or swoop in to carry her away. He had asked her to be his date at a family wedding, and the family wasn't even real family, just a third cousin, long overdue for the tedious respectability of which she had long dreamed. Or was it a fourth cousin? She wasn't even sure if the cousin was the bride or the groom, come to think about it. Either way, so forward, so early in the relationship, if this was what this was, but he asked with such seeming conviction that nothing could have been more normal, that for a second she forgot that it wasn't. Time enough for the word "yes" to escape her lips, and be followed by a weekend of lingering fear and regret.

To be there, throwing rice at this couple she didn't know, watching the bride blow kisses at a crowd that she, herself, had barely met, was so absurd and yet, all the same, so right. Nothing more than a game, yes, but what of it? Was it so wrong to pretend to be part of this family if, as one did so, one truly was becoming part of it, and the make believe was becoming real, she had wondered. "Who's the one rushing now?", had come the sudden, uneasy thought that was soon briefly forgotten as he shoved a bag of birdseed into her hand. "The pigeons are starting to gather", he said, "and we're worried they'll start to detonate." "Of course", she had said, accepting the mock warning with mock seriousness, as the bride and groom boarded their limo and everybody began to disperse.

The thought returned late in the week that followed, as he called to tell her that he'd have to take a rain check on the weekend they had planned. "Hon", her mom had said, "he was just taking you to Galena. It's not like you're missing out on a trip to Paris." True, totally true, with the dome tent he had stashed in the back of his van serving in lieu of a hotel room whenever they traveled, with a pup tent on the side, "in case I have to sleep on the couch", he had said, laughing without conviction. At times, he really knew how to show a girl a bad time, she had thought, as she tried to understand why she was bothered so much by the thought that she wouldn't be enjoying this bad time.

Yes, rain was coming, bringing the cold and the wind with it. These were good reasons to cancel. No, she hadn't ever made him "sleep on the couch" - strange thing for him to call it that, sleeping as he did in a separate bag on the other side of the tent, not touching her. Shouldn't that have been "sleep on the other couch"? Perhaps she could have stayed dry, at least, if she had stayed in during this trip that ended up not happening, but how much fun would spending a weekend trapped in a tent with him have been, while he decided whether or not he wanted to be a monk? Not a move on his part, not even a properly improper suggestion. She could think of him as an old fashioned gentleman when they were out and about, but in there, just the two of them - there was no room for illusions in that tent. There was barely room for the two of them in there, as much as he did try to scrunch up against the side of the tent. As far from her as possible.

What was that? She would have taken that as revulsion, had he not been studying every inch of her ... hungrily? No, with absolute fascination, as if he wanted to memorize every square inch of her. "That could be arranged", she thought. "You need only ask." But he never did. Even in warm weather, that would be a good feeling to miss. As he bowed out of plans already made, this did seem sensible, even strangely graceful, sidestepping an awkward discussion as it did by leaving the new date unset, but something in his voice said that he'd been lying, when he said he'd reschedule to that indeterminate day. He seemed ill at ease, as if there were something on his mind which he could not bring himself to talk about, which would have gotten in way of any plan they could have made, no matter what the weather had been.

Distrust. She had been sure that he didn't trust her, even if he wouldn't admit it, which was a fine attitude for him to take. She'd seen the way he looked at other women, when he thought she wasn't looking. "But then", she thought, "maybe that's why he doesn't trust me. Because he can't. He doesn't know what trust is, because he's never seen anybody earn it." Parents who had been unfaithful to each other, a fiance who'd been less than forthcoming about her ancient profession, calling herself an "assistant therapist" when really the word had been "surrogate" or maybe "courtesan" - who would he have trusted? No, he didn't know how to trust, she thought, but if you looked in his eyes, at times, you could see that he wanted to learn. She'd be glad to teach, if and when the time was right, but only to the extent that she could. She did, after all, have other students, some of whom showed almost as much promise, if not always as much passion for the other subjects she wished to cover.

After that, another week had passed before she found herself in his apartment, being offered that glass of questionable wine. At the moment, the subject he was studying was anatomy, and he was making little progress in that subject, hampered as he was by a shortage of hands on experience. She would have been more than glad to tutor him in this, and had thought that her choice of apparel this evening - a backles, strapless creation that looked like it might fall off in a light breeze - would have made her intentions obvious, but he didn't seem to be taking the hint. Not as far as she could tell.

"Mind if I turn on the fan?", he asked.

"Sure. Why not?"

"She seems so anxious. She must be on the verge of getting up to go", he thought, and he was so anxious to see what that outfit concealed. Not that he had much left to imagine, but every little bit helped. Below a stiff band of material around the top to provide support, her garment was body hugging silk, saved from being mistaken for body paint only by a few ripples that would move with the slightest gust of air, as if it were a flag that she had wrapped herself in, with nothing underneath, hoping that he'd salute the moment she took off the coat she had prudently, if unseasonably worn on her way over. In this, she would not have been disappointed, his little friend standing at attention almost immediately, as he excused himself from the room. A little tacky, she knew, but it had never stayed on for long. Until now.

What was wrong?

"I like your dress", he said. "It seems like a brave choice."

"Brave?" She stiffened.

"A few degrees colder, outside ..."

"Oh, yes. We'd be having hot soup instead of chilled wine."

"Or a hot bath", he suggested.

"Oh, my!"

"I mean, you'd be having a hot bath."

"I'm sure you did." Brief laughter, suddenly stopping.

He didn't deserve that dress, he was sure. Her nights left him with unanswered questions, but his did not, as drunk as he had been during the last few. If she had slipped, he thought, he had fallen. She had acted in the moment, from passion. What he had done was far worse. He had acted from anger, from spite, from the knowledge of where an all girl's college was having its outing this week, picked up from a friend working at a travel agency. Loneliness was an aprodisiac for women, as well, he had found, slower to act for them, but more potent and lasting in its effects, if the previous weekend was any guide. He could hold his tongue, but if his shirt came off, how would he explain the claw marks? And the rope burns? He couldn't deny that he'd had fun, when he wasn't thinking about what he was doing, but there was no hint of love in what had happened. He couldn't even remember any of the names. He liked the girls, wished them well, and maybe had just used them to betray his own girlfriend. What if she kept strange hours because that was just what she did? What if the offense that he had taken revenge over had never existed outside of his own imagination. What if he had been the only one to have been unfaithful, aside from that one girl who had insisted that she was already married to the Lord. "Is He the jealous type", he had asked, getting nothing but giggling in reply, while wondering just how deeply he was going to drop in Hell. This weekend was answering this question, wasn't it?

"You seem quiet, tonight", she said. Is something wrong?"

"No, not at ... no. Just a little tired."

"Tired of me?"

"Tired of insomnia. I got only three hours of sleep, last night."

"Another raincheck?"

He was sure that another week of healing wasn't going to make those wounds vanish, and he couldn't keep skipping dates, not if he didn't want somebody to stop taking his calls. But she was going to do that, anyway, wasn't she? She could smell the guilt on him, he was sure.