Keith is having a bad day.

It's not really Claudia Hickle that he's mad at. He really wanted to throw the fragment of a destroyed building at Simone Clarey's head. But that would hurt a real person and he's not the violent type. Sure he isn't. Right now he's regretting destroying his TV. The wall would have been a much better target; less noticeable damage. Keith has opened a window to let the smoke out so that the smoke detector doesn't go off.

"What the hell is going on in here?" The voice is from Maria Elgados, Keith's boss who heard the noise, saw the smoke, and hurried over to check on her number one employee.

"Sorry. I got�I don't know," is all he could say at this point.

"You don't know? Keith, the TV has a hole in it. They don't come that way."

"Well maybe they should, it would be more entertaining than the garbage we as humans ingest daily."

Whoa. That was harsh and loaded with attitude directed at Maria. She moves over to the door and shuts it so that the argument she perceives she is about to get into will not find its way to the ears of the other after hours workers. She then plants herself a step or two in front of the door and looks at Keith with a glance that tells him that she is completely ready for a war if need be.

Keith has fixated himself at the open window, one hand resting on the frame and looking out to the city before him. "Look at all the ants down there. Mindless drones looking to each other for direction, what to do and what to buy and what to listen to. 'Purple pleated pants in season now? Okay, I'll get me some.' 'We have to leave Earth and live in a space station? Okay, whatever you say.' Why can't I be allowed to do my job?"

"Your job, Keith, is to produce the show, not to go off and-"

"My job is to- I am a reporter."

"You are a producer," Maria shoots back. "And here's an idea that maybe people have forgot." Uh oh, she's in her sarcastic angry mode. "As news people, we're supposed to be neutral. The news comes to us and we report it, that's it, no commentary, no bias. The minute we go looking for a story, there's bias and then we're fucked. Especially since everything can be made into a news story nowadays."

"Times have changed."

"Yes they have Keith. And its for us with principles to stand by them and not bow out when the rest of the world has gone the way of what's the easiest thing to do." She stopped after this sentence. She had a lot more to say, a lot more. She could have gone on about the moral decay of the world and how just maybe we as humans are the collective spirit of Adam and Eve, being banned from Eden. Except this time Eden is called Earth. She could have gone on about how she thinks Keith stinks of wanting to be a famous person. That as reporters, the very definition lends itself to "observer," someone who is on the sidelines watching from afar and you can't observe something if you are in the limelight. She could have gone on about this and more but she didn't. She didn't need to explain herself, she was his boss and the word she got from above was that the powers that be didn't want him investigating on whether or not Earth was truly a lost cause. Also, despite what she thinks of Keith, he doesn't deserve a lecture. He's a smart man and he can figure it out for himself. "Listen. I know you're mad and you have the right to be. But you do not have the right to trash your office."

"I know. I'm- I don't know what got into me. I'll pay for the damages."

"Okay. You sure you're okay? You wanna talk?"

"I'm- I'll be okay. Sorry. Yeah, I just need to calm down a bit."

"All right." Maria checks Keith one last time to make sure that he seems fine and makes her way to the door and exits the room.

Some of what Keith said was true. In fact, he's become a creature of half-truths. He does hate the tendency in people to do whatever they�re told but that's not what's really bothering him. The face of Simone Clarey keeps popping up in his mind. Oh, it just popped up again.

The couple is a young one. They're both probably around 25 years old. They both have that alternative look but not too alternative. The guy is wearing a long-sleeve pale yellow buttoned-up shirt with brown pants and sandals. He has short brown hair that is sort of disheveled and wears thin metal rimed glasses. The woman also has sandals on to go along with her yellow flower-print long skirt and purple V-cut shirt. Over the shirt she has on a green sweater that is thinly woven to allow warmth in air-conditioned rooms like this one. She has medium length straight brown hair that right now is down and resting on her shoulders but the black hair clip, clipped to the strap of her purse that lays next to her on her seat shows that she also likes to put it up.

Something very serious is happening in their lives, or so Sally can sense. The man's demeanor is grim and the girl's is one of empathy. Or maybe it's also grim. At first Sally thinks that maybe they are two lovebirds discussing the degradation of their relationship. They're in love but recently things have been tough and it's testing their relationship. Can they keep the ship afloat or is a break-up inevitable? The guy seems to be the one on the path of thinking that they should break-up. It's the best thing for the both of them so they can each deal with heavy stuff in their lives. Maybe after they get their shit together they can pick up the pieces and try again. Not likely but they both don't want their love to die. They can't even imagine that.

Oh, no. Wait. They now both have their arms on the table, with both hands being held in a cupped fashion. Interlocked means love. Cupped means compassion. Or so Sally believes. Now she believes that the guy- let's call him Otto, he doesn't look like an Otto but more like a Tim but Otto sounds funnier- has a sick father. The father's dying and it's making Otto's heart break. But he can't succumb to the sorrow. He needs to be strong. He needs to show a brave face to his girlfriend- oh, let's call her Pernilla. Why? Because a boy with a cute name needs a girls with a cute name, too.

Sally really wants to hear what they are saying but she knows that would be just too noisy. She already feels like she's intruding too much but she can't help herself. They're just the cutest couple ever in the history of couples and this amazing scene before her is just too compelling. Much better than some dumb soap opera. Better because this is real life we are talking about. Better than reality TV because TV cameras change what they watch. It's a symptom of the fundamental law of nature that an organism acts differently if it knows that it's being observed.

"Don't you agree, Nick?"

Uh oh, she wasn't listening. "What?" Nick is Sally's nickname around her work friends since they all have become accustomed to calling each other by their last name; Nikakado shortened to Nick.

Mitch laughs. "I was just seeing if you were here with us on Earth."

"Yeah, I was listening, sort of. Kind of like background music. Where's our waiter?" Sally's glass of pop is down to the ice cubes and she wants her damn free refills.

"Glad to know we're of such important use to you." Mitch went on. That's one of Mitch's problems, he likes to guilt trip friends to death. It's cute at first but awfully annoying after awhile. Sally doesn't know how Colleen puts up with it. Colleen is sitting to the left of Sally; Sally is pinned in the booth. She's next to the wall and the bars of this space is the topic of conversation that she intrinsically knows they are still on.

"You guys still talking shop?" Sally asks.

"Of course," Colleen offers, betraying her feelings on the subject, which at this moment are the same as Sally's. Usually she's the one to start the shoptalk and tries whenever possible to steer it back to it whenever it's drifted elsewhere. But not today.

"What else do we all talk about when we're all together?" Keith asks knowing they all know that it's not much else.

Mitch then launches into a discussion about how tired he is of being ashamed to always be talking about news article and research and the like. Mitch and Sally both work at the New Chicago Times office in the research department. Colleen has slightly higher status being a classifieds editor. Keith is the hot shot among the group, being an assistant producer and all. Yeah, Mitch is really into his speech all right. But Sally isn't listening. She's watching Otto and Pernilla again.

God how she loves their dynamic. So much tension above their table. Especially when their waitress comes over to refill their coffees. They put their conversation on hold, back up in their seats, stare at different things while the waitress is there, filling their heads with anxiety over Otto's father. Sally's named him Rupert. Otto, son of Rupert; she loves it. No! Ruprect, even better. Then the waitress would leave, they would return to their previous positions slowly and tenderly try to find the best words to break the tension of the scene. Their eyes would dart around the table for something to focus on and then there would be a period where they would look into each other's eyes. Such love. Such compassion.

Oh wait. Otto's getting out his cell phone and dialing someone. He still looks grave and makes it look like calling who ever he is calling is a chore. You can tell the Pernilla wanted him to call whoever it is. His dad, that's who. Ruprect. Reprect's not dying, but he's got heart problems. He's got a blocked artery and they might have to go in for surgery if the blood thinning drugs don't do the trick. But Otto's been through this before. His father has a history of heart problems and this is just the latest in the series. He's tired of riding this roller coaster of emotion. Otto wants to be there for his dad but dad doesn't want Otto to come to see him. Ruprect lives 8 states away and he doesn't want this latest heart problem to inconvenience his son's life any more than it should. Otto is mad at his father for saying so and doesn't want to call because he doesn't want to show his father how worried his is. But Pernilla says that he's worrying more since he doesn't know what's going on with his father. The docs' told Ruprect if the drugs worked or not that morning and now it's that evening. Otto's sick with worry. She can't stand to see him like that.

Wait. Otto's demeanor on the phone has changed. He is smiling and jovial on the phone. The whole tension of the scene at the table is destroyed. He is not talking to a father, his or any one's. Maybe there isn't a sick father after all. Then what was the tension filled scene for? Ah, who can say anymore? Sally doesn't care anymore. She's a little mad that she wasn't able to hit it on the nose about what was playing out before her ten feet away.

Oh, and now they got their food and they're getting ready to eat it all nice and happy like. What is up with that Otto and Pernilla? "I bet your names aren't even Otto and Pernilla," Sally thinks to herself as if she has been betrayed. And where is that waiter?

"Nick, what are you looking at?" Keith asks. He's noticed Sally taking quick glances in one direction and watching something.

"Nothing Rell. Where is our waiter?" He is nowhere to be found. Coincidentally, the waiter's father's name is Otto.

Ghelato is especially nice on such a night. That's what Keith and Sally are eating at the moment while walking slowly down Lincoln Avenue. Sally's focus is outward on the people around her. She really is a watcher. Keith's focus is inward and his thoughts are on how miserable he truly is even when so much good surrounds him. If things are so good, then why does he feel so bad? Maybe the mint Ghelato will fulfill soul.

"Colleen and Mitch seem to be happy," Sally says to Keith for validation of her observation.

"Yeah. They do," he says almost automatically.

Sally recognizes the lack of thought that went into that response and reads it as Keith not wanting to talk. So they walk on in silence. They walk past a deli, two bookstores, three clothing stores, a law practice, and bakery while finishing their ghelato and cones.

"Do you think I'm attractive?" Keith springs on Sally.

"What?"

"Do you think I'm attractive?"

"Uh�I guess so. W-what brought this on?"

"You guess so?"

"Yeah, I mean. You're a regular looking guy. I can't tell." She stops walking. "Look, I'm your friend, I don't think about- what? Are- are you�are you interested in me?"

"Oh no." he says with such conviction as if the mere idea of being interested is repulsive. "I mean, you're like my little sister. I just wondered if you thought I was an attractive guy. I think so. Do you?"

"I guess."

"No don't guess, either yes or no. If you had to set me up with one of your friends, would you tell them I was an attractive guy?"

"I wouldn't set you up with one of my friends." She starts to walk again.

"So I'm not attractive?"

"No, I mean I'm not that cruel."

"What?"

"Okay, that was harsh?"

"Cruel? Setting me up would be cruel?"

"You're right, I'm sorry. I take it back, sort of."

�Sort of? What the hell does that mean? Fine, Nick doesn't think I'm attractive, I'll take that as her answer,� is what Keith is thinking.

"Do you want me to be attracted to you, Rell?

"Oh, God no." Again, the conviction with which he says it hurts Sally. Like having her attracted to him would be a disease. "This has nothing to do with anything between us. It's just that I think I'm attractive and I was wondering if you, as a woman, thought I was. You just happen to be the closest woman right now, is all."

�Ah. Well at least he knows I'm a woman and doesn't think of me as one of the guys,� Sally thinks. This conversation is already a pain in the ass and to avoid any more evaluations of her attractiveness, she decides to appease Keith. "Yes, speaking under those circumstances I would say that you, for a male, are attractive. I guess."

"Good. That's what I thought."

�God, what a conceited asshole,� Sally thinks. She also regards him as a very negative person. All throughout college Sally was surrounded by negative people. She was also very depressed during those days and it wasn't until she moved to a different city and started making new friends did she realize how much they contributed to her state of mind. Come to think of it, Keith is probably her only negative friend in her life now. She only knows Keith through Mitch and Colleen. Keith's Mitch's friend and Colleen is Sally's friend. Still, she tolerates Keith since she doesn't see him that often. If she had to be around him a lot she would probably kill him. And that would suck �cause then she would go to jail and she bets that there are a lot of negative people at jail.

Wait. Back up. Let�s say 30 seconds ago.

The killer drank the last of the milk straight from the jug. He would have to take the jug with him. For what if the police swabbed the milk for cells? Then they would have some of his cells and then be able to identify the killer�s DNA. No, leave no evidence behind that the cops could use to tie it back to him. Leave behind the evidence to tie it back to others; that was the plan. He had read before that the CON leave behind copies of the bible behind at the scenes of their sabotages. So the killer did the same.

He put the milk jug in the duffel bag, along with the other things he brought. Time to leave.

He walked over to the front door and looks out the peephole. The coast is clear.

Wait. Back up five minutes.

The final cut had been made. The killer was tired. He was worn out and still sweating profusely. He stood up straight and felt his back hurt since he had been hunched over the body for awhile. �Should of stretched before he came� he thought. �Or at least get in better shape.� The killer looked healthy appearance-wise but had been in better shape in college when he actually did work out and jog regularly. He looked down at the mess before him.

He had repeatedly stabbed the already dead body. Probably made about a hundred or so post-mortem wounds. Maybe that would hide the actually cause of death. And even if the police did find out that it wasn�t, who cared? It would just look even more insane and insane was what he was going for. It was all part of the trail he was trying to get the cops to go down. A trail hopefully away from himself.

He walked over to the kitchen, putting his left hand behind him to help him straighten out his back and the pains that he felt in it. If he could only bend backwards far enough and crack the lower vertebrae his irritation would go away. In his other hand was the knife, the damn bloody knife.

He washed off the blood in the sink and then wrapped it in paper towels to wipe it down. He would put it in his bag later. But now he was thirsty. Let�s see what�s in the fridge. Hmm�orange juice, milk, pop, pink lemonade it looks like�

Wait. Rewind let�s say another five minutes.

The note was re-written and he blew on the paper to dry the �ink.� After it was dry he tri-folded it and put it into an envelope he had already made out to a local newspaper. That was how the world would learn about this crime and luckily people would fall for the con, if you excuse the pun.

The killer wiped the pen he had used clean of fingerprints and went around the apartment wiping other places he thought he touched before he put his gloves on.

Then it was time to really make the crime scene look brutal. He went back to the couch of supplies and picked up the butcher knife he brought along.

Wait. Go back 10 minutes.

�While the world will find this event brutal and inhumane, it is ironic that in truth it is actually the most humane thing that has ever happened in the history of the known world. There is a conspiracy afoot that the Powers That Be have kept hidden from you. You walk the Earth in the shadow of your own death; a fate put in stone long ago. Money drives all and there is money to be made in Operation Exodus. It is more profitable to move the species of Our home onto floating concentration camps in space than to be brave and try to remain on Earth. They say all is lost. All is NOT lost.

The truth is far from what we have been spoon-fed. The time is at hand to reclaim our Souls, stand firm, and declare that we will NOT be driven from our birthplace. God alone will chose our fate and if his wrath is to be taken upon us for our treachery, then let it be upon the dirt we are made from and not upon the heavens, which are not reserved for us and our wicked kind. The second Great Flood is here and while it would be convenient to climb aboard the Arc and live on, the Arcs being built now are not holy vessels nor have then been ordained by the Lord. If we be washed away then let it be for it is God�s will.

Our cause is just and righteous and all that stand in Our way will suffer Our wrath for it is God�s wrath. Do not let who have been called upon go to the Heavens until thee be summoned by the Lord Himself. The death committed tonight is for the common good of us all. Cut off the head and the body shall wither and die and so say the Lord. We will not rest until our Mission is done�and it Will be done as it has been foretold. Death to Operation Exodus and death to those that dare call themselves the Moses of Today.

Amen, The Children Of Noah.�

The killer reread his fake note to make sure it sounded good. He had only read about the Children of Noah, or CON as they are also called, in the papers and he thought he did a good job of bullshitting what a note from them would sound like. He was also particularly happy with his odd choices of capitalizing certain words like �Our� and �Today.� He was very pleased with himself. He almost wished he could take credit for writing the note because it was so good.

Then he noticed that he wasn�t wearing the Latex gloves he brought with him. His fingerprints were on the piece of paper and pen and syringe.

Fuck.

He went over to the couch where the supplies were and put on the pair of gloves he brought. He had to use a new piece of paper and re-write the letter.

Wait. Back up. Let�s say 11 minutes.

The killer sat on the bottom step of the stairs that went up to the second floor. Before him about five feet away was the body. The pool of blood had stopped growing larger about five minutes before. He didn�t know this. I mean he didn�t realize how much time had elapsed since he killed that woman. �How long had he been in this daze?� he thought to himself. �Gotta go on with the rest of it, now that�s it�s really done.�

He got up and walked around the body and blood pool to the front door. He looked out the peephole to make sure no one was around. He opened the door quickly and picked up the duffel bag that he left on the front porch. He brought it in the house with him and closed and locked the door behind him. Out from the bag he dumped the contents on the living room couch. He found the syringe and brought it to the pool of blood. He then sucked up about 10 cc�s of blood into the needle.

Back over to the couch he found the pen he brought and filled the empty ink well with the blood from the syringe. Writing a note in the victim�s own blood would be really horrible the killer thought. It would look like the group the police was dealing with was insane and very deadly. Also, if somehow the police saw through the ruse and tied it back to him, the note-in-her-own-blood thing would make him look muy loco and then he probably wouldn�t get the death penalty since he could easy be found not fit mentally to stand trial.

He took the sheet of paper he brought and took it and the blood filled pen to the kitchen table to write the note.

Wait a minute. No, let�s go back 8 minutes.

The sweaty bullet made its home in the hardwood floor. To get there it had to go through skin, bone, tissue, blood, and brains.

Wait. Back up 5 seconds.

Bullet number two was launched. Luckily for the lady, it ricocheted off her wrist bones in her left arm and just missed its lethal target. Instead it went through her cheek and then into the wood floor. Blood, that immediately filled her mouth, was sprayed in the air as her brain told her that her wounds hurt a lot. I mean I whole lot. It hurt very, very much. The cheek injury was nothing compared to the wrist one. Her left hand hung off her arm with only skin and tendons holding it on. It looked really bad. No, I mean really bad. Imagine bad and multiply it by ten. It was worse than that. Yeah, that bad. Seven hours from now the coroner would see the wrist injury and know it was a defensive wound. The victim�s hands were held out in front of her face to shield herself from danger.

The killer steadies the gun with the other hand. He now has two hands holding the gun. He�s sweating. A lot. I mean like a pig. A pig on a hot summer day. Not a pig in the shade but one in the sun and at three o�clock in the afternoon. And on a humid day. Sweat dripping everywhere. Yeah, that much. The sweaty eye lined up the gun at her head and the sweaty finger pulled the sweaty trigger. The sweaty bullet leapt from the gun. The bullet was nervous, too.

Wait. Back up 30 seconds.

�Oh it�s you. I told you to leave me alone,� a soft-voiced female voice states in an annoyed tone. She is sick of dealing with this jag-mo.

�I have something to say,� replies a male voice in a neutral tone.

�What?� She can�t wait. This will be great. Stop the presses, this guy has something to say. Sarcasm is in season; and it�s $0.89 per pound.

�I just want to say that-,� he pauses and looks over her shoulder to the back of the foyer as if something caught his eye. It�s a ruse. There is nothing moving behind to catch his eye. She takes the bait and turns her head to look behind her. His moment is now. The killer rushes at the woman and rams into her to knock her off her feet and further into her home. Now he can come inside the brownstone and close the front door.

�Ow! You fucker! What the Hell do you think you are doing?� She sees he is fuddling with something inside his front sweatshirt pocket. �What are you-?� is all she is able to get out before a noise startles her. Her grandfather clock has been punctured with something that flew out of this jackass�s front sweatshirt pocket.

Back up two seconds.

A muffled noise goes off under the killer�s sweatshirt. The bullet pierces the gray cotton threads and sails in the air on its journey. The killer has ruined his sweatshirt. The bullet makes a pit stop Glassville, then makes a small angle change at Metal Gear Township, before coming to its final destination at Wood City. The inner chamber of the grandfather clock announces the headlines of a bullet invasion.

�Fuck,� the killer says to himself. He then fuddles with the gun to get it out of his sweatshirt pocket. Fuddle, fuddle��damn loose cotton��.fuddle, fuddle��c�mon, stop snagging on things��fuddle, fuddle�the gun is finally free. The Glock 20 special fitted with a silencer gleams from the entrance way incandescent light.

�Aw shit no,� is all the victim can think to say.

Bullet number two is launched.

Wait. Back up. Let�s say 30 seconds.

Simone Clarey opens her front door.

�Who had to clean it up?� Xavier asks Calvin.

�Me and Rodney,� answers Calvin. Rodney, by the way, is one of the morning shift ushers. He has since gone home for the day. �It was so disgusting. I really should get paid more for having to clean literally shit up.�

�How much was there to clean up?� Xavier inquires to find out whether or not Calvin is just whining or actually has some cause for being annoyed with the task he had to perform. Xavier has cleaned up his share of poop during his time at the theater.

�Let me put it this way. It looked like somebody�s ass exploded.� Calvin thought up this piece of imagery about two hours earlier and now loves to say it to anybody who will listen. �It was all over the toilet, the back wall, the floor, the side walls of the stall; everywhere. It was just revolting.� Calvin then makes an exaggerated shudder with his shoulders and arms, but the point is clear.

Xavier likes the story and is very happy that he wasn�t there when it happened or he would have had to help clean it up.

�I think the mess gets bigger every time he tells it,� Audrey offers to Xavier but mainly to get a reaction out of Calvin.

�I swear to God I�m not exaggerating. I don�t even want to talk about it anymore.� That�s a half lie. True it was a bad thing to have to do, but he wears the fact that he did it like a badge of courage. Makes him feel like a man�s man.

�What the game of the day Audrey?� Xavier asks. �Guessing the weight of the customers that ask for butter on their popcorn? How many times people try to pay with Euros? Asking people if they�d like pepper on their popcorn instead of salt? Which, I have to say, is my favorite game that you�ve come up with.�

�None of the above.�

�Ahh. A new one do I smell?�

�Indeed you do.�

Xavier leans forward over the counter Audrey is standing behind. �Do tell.�

�All right. Today�s game is to make sure Calvin always has the image of what he had to clean up in his mind. In short, to always have shit on his mind,� she says with a delightful smirk on her face.

�That�s horrible, devious, and pure mean.� Xavier pauses a beat for effect. �I love it.�

Audrey back away from the counter, nods her head to express how much she too enjoys the evilness of today�s game, turns to walk down the concession stand, and struts in a way that communicates that she is too cool. �Go on with your bad self,� the frosty machine seems to say while purring and humming the way it does.

Xavier checks his wristwatch and sees that it is time to grab his dinner.

�So, how was Australia?� Xavier asks.

�Australia,� Litza offers.

�Good. �Cause I heard rumors that is was starting to become New Guinea and that would have troubled me something fierce.�

�Yes, well rumors are only rumors remember.�

They both smile and Litza looks back at her half-finished food. She�ll need it wrapped to take home. Xavier looks at her and wonders what is the matter with her. He�s always had a hard time reading her expressions and this one is no different. Except that her demeanor is a little duller than usual and her tone seems a little dour.

�You okay?�

�Hmm? What?� she says snapping out of deep thought. �Oh yeah, I�m fine.�

�Okay.�

�What? You don�t think I�m fine?�

�Hey, if you say you�re fine, then you�re fine.�

�But you don�t think I�m fine.�

�Even if you weren�t fine, it would be okay. It would be fine.�

�So, you�re saying you would be fine with me being not fine?�

�No, not like that.�

�Not like what?�

�Not like you were implying.�

�How was I implying it?�

�You were implying that I would be fine if you weren�t fine which I wouldn�t be. I wouldn�t be fine with you being not fine because I want to see you fine. However, if you were not fine, as your good friend, I would still be by your side even in your not-fine�atude �thing. Or something�like that.� Xavier thought he could pull it off but got lost near the end. The expression on his face is classic. It makes Litza laugh a little. �I have no idea what I�m talking about anymore.�

Litza tries to tame her laughs to get out, �Neither do I.� Xavier laughs too and the aura around and above their table brightens and lightens a little.

�But seriously, you seems a little down.�

Foul. Penalty to Xavier for not letting it drop. �I�m just jet lagged is all. I�m tired and not that hungry obviously.�

�Yeah. I forgot about that. The time spent on the plane. Sorry about that.�

�No harm, no foul�no worries.�

�I love that expression from Australia. �No worries.� It�s so neat.�

�Yeah, well it�s something or other.� There she goes again being dour. Stop doing that Litza.

Just then the waiter comes by. �Can I get you anything else? Dessert?�

�Naw, that will just about do it I think,� Xavier answers. �Litza?�

�Can I get this wrapped up to go?� she asks the waiter, indicating what is left of her muffata sandwich.

�Sure thing,� offers the waiter whose father is Otto.

Both minds turn and turn to think of things to say during this next gap in the conversation. Instead silence fills the hole and in about ten seconds of this, it becomes clear that speaking again might take too much energy. Like riding a bike, if you have to break for a stop sign, don�t actually stop completely but coast a little so that you don�t have to create as much energy into getting up to speed as you would if you came to a complete halt. So the minds stop searching for something to say. Instead the eyes take over and search the room for something of interest to focus on. Anything than the eyes of the dinner guest opposite of you. Litza is analyzing the way the scratches on the table have been made by past customers. Xavier is focusing on the bikes and people walking on the street just outside the front window of the restaurant.

Xavier readjusts his feet to obtain a better sitting position, to relieve the pressure off his ass. In doing so he accidentally knocks his feet with Litza�s. �Sorry.�

�It�s okay,� she says. They both pull their feet in closer to their own bodies.

This is silly to Xavier. Something has changed between them and he doesn�t know what it is. It�s awkward and obstructive, overwhelming the time spent together. There are secrets being kept and he doesn�t like it. Of course, he�s keeping secrets too. He hasn�t told Litza of his meeting with Penny. Nor does he mention they way they hit it off in an odd sort of way. He behaves differently around her and he wants to dive into a conversation about it. To explore the nuances of human behavior and how the brain is wired in such a way to govern how it reacts to future situations. Litza and him always had good conversations and he wants to have another good one now. But he holds his tongue instead.

Litza wants to have a great conversation too. They�ve always had such great talks before. But she doesn�t want to talk about her situation with her dad. It�s too soon right now. Maybe later. But she knows the outcome to be of the future conversation she will have with Xavier on this topic. She will mention when she found out, he will do the math as far as how much time pasted between her finding out and him being told by her, and then he will get this small, almost imperceptible expression of hurt on his soul. But Litza will see it. She sees everything because she has the eyes of infatuation and infatuation eyes take in everything. They take in the small, make it big, and wrap it up in a big bow as a gift to the heart. The heart then files it away under the category of �The Small Things he does to make me Love him More.� So this perceived clairvoyance of hers, it makes her want to tell him but the heart that loves him also tells her that it is not prepared to talk about it yet. It cannot take a pity look for the pity look will destroy it. And with a destroyed heart, her chest cavity would fill with blood and that�s just not a good thing to have happen.

The waiter finally comes back with a doggy bag and the check. This act breaks the silences and restores the communication between them for the moment; albeit about how much the food was and how much should the tip be. Incidentally, the total was $21.52 and they left a $5 tip.

His eyes are trying to kick his contacts out of his eye. The eye and the contacts had an argument and now the eyes want the contacts to sleep on the couch. The eye needs its space to breathe and it feels that the contact is suffocating it. The contact doesn�t get it because the eye needs him to see better. They make a great team and work so well with each other. It�s as if they were made for each other. It�s fate and the eye just doesn�t see it yet.

Oh, and Calvin is in sort of a pissy mood. Audrey was ticking him off all day with her constant talking about the mess in the bathroom. That girl is weird. And who would have figured her for a person to be so fascinated with poop that she won�t shut up about it? And then Calvin got snippy with Beatrice and she got snappy back so that�s just another thing he will have to deal with tomorrow. God, when will this day get over?

Hopefully no longer than 5 minutes since Calvin is at his apartment door and he figures that if he hurries, he can get his teeth brushed, contacts out, clothes off, and into bed in that amount of time. He hopes his roommate Frank isn�t there. God, Frank is just an annoying guy. He�s like a woman in that he doesn�t say what he wants to say. Instead passive aggressively mentions things in hopes that your behavior will change. Calvin�s not a fucking mind reader. If you want to get told �good morning� or �good night� or �Happy Thanksgiving� then fucking say it yourself first. Then I will say it back to you, Calvin thinks. Besides, Calvin isn�t a morning person or a verbal person for that matter. Eye contact is enough for him to signify a �hello� or �good morning� or �I acknowledge your presence in this room.� Besides, it�s not like there is some sort of rule that says just because you live in the same apartment with a person you have to become friends with the guy. And on top of all that, he used Calvin�s peanut butter, which is just so wrong. A week ago Calvin wanted to make a sandwich with peanut butter and to his surprise found that the peanut butter jar was almost completely robbed of its peanut butter. If you�re going to use someone�s food, then have the decency to replace what you used. Calvin sometimes �borrows� milk if he runs out of milk and doesn�t have time to go to the store. But unlike some people, people whose names start with F and rhyme with rank, Calvin replaces the amount he figures he owes the next time he goes to the grocery store. It�s just common courtesy. God, he hopes Frank is not there.

A look to the right as Calvin walks in reveals that Frank is not in the living room area, where Frank generally is when he is at home. �Things are looking good. Time to take out these damn contacts. That means walking into the bathroom to grab the contact stuff and HOLY SHIT!!�

Replace the shit from the movie theater bathroom with blood and you�ve got just about what Calvin�s bathroom looks like now. In the bathtub is a passed out half-naked woman with blood splattered on her. The blood�s origin is from Frank, who is on the bathroom tile floor in a pool of blood. Next to his hand is a knife and it becomes obviously clear that Frank has been repeatedly stabbed.

My fingers are gone. She ate my fingers. It hurts so much.

And then there are days when you just don�t want to leave your bed. You have no energy at all and any motivation you have is negated by your body saying to your brain that the covers and sheets feel too good and can�t we just stay like this all day? And you listen to your body because shouldn�t you be listening to it anyway? So you stay in bed and drift in an out of sleep. And the light that comes into your room, seeping in and around your closed blinds, goes from very light to dim to dark as you watch the daylight go by. And now that it�s night again, you want to sleep but you don�t want to sleep the whole day away. And besides, your stomach is aching since you haven�t eaten at all. And your head itches a little since you haven�t washed your hair. But wouldn�t it be great if you had a servant who could bring you breakfast in bed? Then you wouldn�t have to get up at all. You could spend the entire day in bed.

Or maybe a lover. Yeah, a lover would be great. They would be the one with the energy and get up and cook you breakfast. You could have a breakfast made and served to you with love and lust. Doesn�t lust go so well with eggs and toast? And then you could go back to sleep while your lover decided to go shopping and run all the errands you forgot to do the previous day. And then when your love came back, they would clean the house for you so that once you actually decided to drag your body out of bed, it was to a house that was cleaned, to a life where the errands were already done, and to a lover that was your slave?

Instead, you drag your sorry ass out of bed not because of hunger, since you�ve quieted it by ignoring it, but because you have to pee and there�s no amount of mind over matter that can tell your bladder sphincter to just be quiet and deal with it. But you have to pee so badly and so you have to get out of bed. Rats.

And you shuffle to the bathroom, past a living room that isn�t clean. Past a table with bills on it that haven�t been paid yet, a grocer list that hasn�t been used yet, and a video that�s now overdue since you didn�t get up sooner. And as if that weren�t enough, the damn toilet seat is cold. You would think in this damn modern era that we would have solved the cold toilet seat problem by now. We had warmed up car seats when there were still cars around. Why not warmed up toilet seats? Is it because it helps to wake us up in the morning? Maybe. But you don�t want to be woken up yet. You shuffled into the bathroom with eyes squinted to only allow enough light into your eyes to allow you to see where you are going so that you didn�t run into anything, like a chair or a door jam. All in the hopes that when you return to bed you can fall back into sleep and return to the dreams you were having as if you hadn�t woken up at all. But that damn toilet seat woke you up, didn�t it?

Now in the wakened state, you no longer have that dream. And this day�s dreams were focused on how maybe without putting any energy into anything, your world could be fixed again and maybe even improved to a point where it�s better than ever before. In the dream world your parents were happily married and your father wasn�t a cheat. In the dream world you were a brilliant writer and no longer a movie theater assistant manager and film projectionist. In the dream world men were at your feet, begging you for a date. And especially in the dream world, you weren�t hung up on Xavier Peterssen. You were over and done with the little crush. In the dream world life was great.

Damn that toilet seat.

The damn toilet seat and its cold seat have awoken you out of your paradise. The illusion is shattered and lying on the tile floor in little bits and pieces. Each piece glimmers in the low light from on outside alleyway lamppost that peers into the bathroom through the thick and opaque window; the glimmering beams of light stab your eyes and shock the brain. The sound of a dream world torn apart is so deafening that your heart even feels the pain of the shock waves; in fact it feels the pain more and understands the meaning of it better than the rest of the body.

Your soul is angry now. Your brain is angry. Your body pumps extra adrenaline through your veins as your inner drive wakes up with a roar of ten thousand lions. You want to get up and destroy things all around you. Your desire to make the biggest temper tantrum is humongous. But�you are still relieving your body of its excess liquid waste so you have to wait. Oh God, you have to fucking wait. So, instead of creating destruction you let out a wail of a banshee.

This wakes up your napping roommate who had to work an early morning Saturday shift and is now back home to rest. Opps. Is there a problem, she inquires? Are you injured? Did we run out of toilet paper again? What is the problem?

As if you could explain succinctly what exactly your problem is. You yourself can�t even pin point exactly what your problem is. You just know that you have a problem and its driving you absolutely mad. Some sort of action is needed.

The anger returns and you like it. You like it because when you are angry, you get shit done. But this time is different. You will get shit done on another level, a higher level. This isn�t just a sort of spring cleaning but a complete mental, spiritual, and life cleaning. You are tired of being in a crush that has lasted as long as it has. You are tired of living so shy. You are tired of being scared and being afraid of doing the wrong thing. You�ve been so scared of making of wrong step that you decided just not to take any step. So you�ve moved nowhere and now you want to get somewhere, as long it is anywhere but where you are.

This is what you tell your roommate as you storm out of the bathroom, shaking the water from your hands that the towel didn�t get after you quickly washed your hands and clumsily and inadequately tried to dry them. You don�t have time to properly dry your hands; you�re angry. Angry has no time for small tasks. Angry has only time for big tasks. Angry is a bad ass. Your roommate is trying to gather all this in, still in a dazed state, not completely out of nap land. Poor Tabitha, she has to put up with you.

In the next 3-and-a-half hours you get shit done. You make out checks to companies that say you owe money to for services rendered. You transform piles of rather smelly clothes into neatly folded clean ones. Items on a list are crossed off while the same items are now located in the refrigerator, cabinets, or pantry. Angry got them all done.

And now you are rather tired for you�ve been doing things rather intensely for the past few hours. But mostly you can now allow yourself slow down because the thing that you really wanted to do, but were too scared to do is done. The switch in your head has been flipped. The vow to yourself has been made but most importantly is the knowledge that this time, and really and truly this time, this time you can feel deep in your bones that you are actually going to do it. The past times were bullshit promises that you knew weren�t backed up by any conviction. Like those diets you tried back in your heavy set days in high school. It wasn�t until college that you felt the conviction to eat right and live healthier. Now it�s the same things only with a different area.

And in some strange way you owe your dad for the change. If he hadn�t done what he did, you may have never woken up from the fog you�ve been living in. His indiscretion has fueled your ambition to never be in any way, shape, or form like him. You are going to make something of your life. You are going to be the kind of person you want to be. You are going to be decent and kind and loving and strong. Most of all you will be strong. Strong in life and strong in love. Not weak like dear �ole dad. No weakness whatsoever. That means no crushes, no pulled punches, no time to be in fear anymore. All of this came to you like a bolt of lightning while folding laundry. Maybe it was the static electricity.

Whatever it was, the change is done and it feels good. And the love seat in are sitting in feels good. The room feels good. You feel good. And when you go back to work, you will open that vault of secrets you�ve been keeping and let it spill out on the floor. You will walk up to Xavier and tell him how you feel. You will brace yourself for the rejection that you are certain will come. And then you will bravely, and triumphantly move on.

Glory be to the toilet seat.