"I'm afraid that some times you'll play lonely games too.
Games you can't win 'cause you'll play against you.
All Alone! Whether you like it or not,
Alone will be something you'll be quite a lot.
And when you're alone, there's a very good chance
You'll meet things that scare you right out of your pants.
There are some, down the road between hither and yon,
That can scare you so much you won't want to go on."
-Oh! The Places You'll Go
Dr. Seuss
Snowflakes.
Alex Moore
I
I'd really love to fuck you.
My head tilts a bit, unsure if I'd said that out loud or not. A few seconds pass, and the man sitting tensely in my recliner remains silent. Perhaps I didn't say anything… or perhaps he's just reeling from the shock. He adjusts his little red necktie and raises his eyebrows…
"Mrs. Fontaine?"
"Uh… yes? I mean, yes?"
"You trailed off for a minute. You were talking about systems, by the way."
GORE GORE GORE CHEW CHEW CHEW
"Oh, yes! Systems! Thank God! Uh… I mean… people tend have their own little personal systems. Little things. Like how you'd chew your food, or how ah… I don't know. Some people spread their peanut butter left to right, or up and down. I spread mine diagonally, every time. That reminds me – I'm dying of hunger here. You want, like… you want a BLT or something? I could really go for a BLT right now, you know? All that crunch and flavor and awesomeness, super yummy. I like to chew my food like a cow chews grass. Except, you know… not as long. Cows chew for a long time, y'know. Like, absurdly long. But I do like to chew things for a decently long time – probably more than most people, I think. More than average human beings with normal chew cycles, anyway. Hey, you want a BLT?"
"I'm not the least bit hungry," says… shit, I forgot his name. Maybe it starts with a V, but I really dunno. I'd still really love to fuck him, just to get it over with. It'll bug me if I don't.
"That's good," I mutter, nibbling on the quick of my thumbnail. "I mean, that's not good. I mean… um… I just meant that I don't have any bacon in the fridge, and that… uh, nevermind. What was I talking about?"
"Little systems," he says. He's such a hack. He's incredibly cute, but he's such an absolute hack. Look at him, scribbling his notes. He's probably doodling or something. I wish I could see that notepad; maybe he's drawing a silly caricature of me, spewing all my problems into his face like tiny balls of acid. I start to wonder what I must look like in his eyes – those rich, dreamy, hazelnut jewels… wait, what was I talking about?
"What was I talking about?"
He raises his eyebrow. Hack. "You were talking about the little systems people make for themselves, such as spreading peanut butter a certain way. I'm unsure where you were going with it."
"Oh yeah! People have systems, to like… help them through their lives. You can't survive without some sort of system in place. You'd go insane with all the chaos, right? So I chew my food slowly and I spread my peanut butter diagonally and I gnaw my thumb like a madwoman because, well… those are my little systems. That's how I'm programmed, I guess. I mean, maybe you have a car – or a computer or a wife, something like that. Imagine that throughout the years you've bonded with this thing, and taught yourself how to fuck around with its soul. You've mastered all its little systems – all the ridiculous rituals that make it tick and keep it from going crazy – so well that they've become your little systems too. Uh… so maybe your car takes five minutes to warm up and the gearshift sticks in third and the passenger side fan makes a little clicking noise that's perfectly in sync with the tempo of five different Metallica songs – that you've noticed, anyway. Or maybe your computer has a hard time running certain websites, and the disc drive is finicky on cold days and you have to hold the power cord in place while its booting up or else the whole rig will explode on you. Or maybe you have a wife. Me and my brain have a similar… uh, relationship. I think. Excuse me, my thumb is a little… long."
I'm starting to taste blood, but I don't dare stop chewing. Gotta keep chewing right down to the bone. Go, go, GOGOGOCHEW
Did I say that out loud? How long have I been talking? Panic. Panic button. Press it. Press it.
"Mrs. Fontaine," the V man says, "I'm sure that—"
"It's Miss. Please call me Miss Fontaine. Good Lord, I don't look that old, do I? Actually, don't call me Miss Fontaine either. Call me uh… call me Sarah. Because that's my first name. But I'm pretty sure you already knew that. Sarah, yeah."
"…Yes, well Miss Fontaine, I'm sure that your systems and your methods are…"
Perhaps I was wrong. His cuteness level might be higher than his hackness level, but nobody can ever be sure with these things. Oily black hair hanging low over a pair of auburn stunners, peering at me past his stylishly thick-rimmed glasses, oh God! I wonder if he can see me fidgeting. Yeah, he's very stylish, but in a progressive pornstar kinda way. Yeah. I'd hit that, I guess. But the notebook… augh, his little red notebook full of doodles kills any attractiveness he would have had. Fuck that notebook.
"…do you understand what I'm trying to say, Miss Fontaine?"
"Totally. Uh, yeah. I mean yeah."
"Have you been taking your medication?"
"Yeah, of course. All the time. It's been helping me concentrate at work and… y'know, stuff," I lie, pausing a second before attacking my thumb again. Bleed. Bleed. Bleed. Sweet nectar. That medication doesn't even work. Hack. Nothing works. Nothing's ever gonna work. You people have been prodding at me for years now, and none of it ever works. I can't believe I still pay for this. Gotta remind myself to stop paying one of these days. KEEP CHEWING KEEP CHEWING
"Miss Fontaine?"
"Sarah!" I screech at him, my thumb still lodged between my teeth. A thin trickle of blood makes its way down my chin. "Uh… call me Sarah. What's your name again?"
"Doctor—"
"Nuh no, your first name."
"Virgil. Er, Sarah… I think we should probably wrap it up, eh? It's been about an hour, and I think I've gotten all the info I need for now."
"Yeah, good idea. I mean—"
"I know what you meant," he sighs, flipping the notebook closed and hopping to his feet. He doesn't even bother to look at me as he makes his way to the door. "I'll see you next Thursday, Sarah."
"Bye Vir…gil," I mumble, trailing off as the door slams shut behind him. Hack.
II
BLT. I really want a BLT for some reason, yet I can't quite remember why. I meander over to the fridge, scour it for a minute, realize I don't have any bacon and immediately rush to put my shoes and my hoodie on. I'll be damned if some silly bacon will ruin my Thursday night – let's do this.
It's chilly out, and a billowing horde of black clouds has been threatening to snow on us for weeks now. Maybe one of these days it'll actually happen, but I doubt it.
On my way to the bus stop, I start to struggle with the zipper of my hoodie… ah, damn. C'mon you stubborn little thing, cooperate with me just this once… augh. Forget it. Wait, no – don't forget it. Defeat it. I take a deep breath and tug the shit out of the plastic zipper until it shatters and disappears into the depths of the shadowy tarmac. Exhale. Mission uh… accomplished. I guess. Forget it, nevermind. I take off the stupid jacket, take a few steps towards the bus stop and immediately realize that I was more comfortable with it on.
"Zippers," I growl to myself, my mangled thumb slowly making its way into my mouth. "Zippers can uh… zippers can suck it, yeah. Whoever invented zippers should be dragged out into the street and shot. Uh, twice. Yeah. Zippers, man."
I re-don the jacket and drape the hood over my eyes, pushing a tuft of frizzy blonde hair out of my face. Need to straighten it, but the thought of using my ancient straightening iron is almost unbearable. It was a gift from my grandmother – well actually, nevermind. That's a blatant lie. I stole the old thing out of a shoebox in her attic a few years ago. Fun little expedition with the high school boyfriend, but I don't quite remember his name. Probably started with an R or something. We'd gone exploring up there, messed around a bit, stole some worthless junk and accidentally broke some valuables. Stupid iron doesn't even work too well, but it's a decent antique that would fit well in any steampunk lover's collection. Maybe I should get it appraised one of these days.
Uh… what was I doing?
I stand at the bus stop for about five minutes before I remember that I'd been waiting for the bus. The Nite Owl lumbers around the corner and comes to a stop right in front of me, heaving and hissing, an overweight and homely dragon that whisks me away for my occasional nighttime romps to nowhere. Oh, augh! My thumb gushes as I nibble the flesh away, passively neurotic, need, need, need. Need to remember to buy Band-Aids. Need to write it down somewhere.
I hop on, trying to remember why I left my apartment in the first place. No luck. "Hi, uh… Thomas?"
"Terrence," the bus driver says, smiling. "Heh, sometimes I wonder if you're faking it, Sarah."
I stare at him for a second, his face an alien portrait of sadness and hesitation. That look in his eyes… he must be a nightwalker, a denizen of the moon that possesses the rare ability to see the fantastical creatures that crawl from the woodworks and the sewers when the sun rests its bones. He recognizes me… I must be one of his deeply disturbed regulars – one of those sewer-beings that he's come to grow attached to. I'm a demon; I'm a sporadic and obsessive nymphet stuffed into a human girlsuit, characterized by broken zippers, frizzy blonde goldilocks and constantly bloodsoaked claws. I can see it in his peering eyes, burned black by his curious power to see me as I am. I meander to the back of the desolate dragon and take a seat.
"Yeah Terrence, me too."
I ride around for an hour before Terrence drops me off at my apartment and thanks me for the company. I wonder what it would be like to befriend wayward demons in transit, night after night. I wonder for thirty-two seconds before craving a hot bacon sandwich on toasted sourdough, with tomato and lettuce and butter, not a moment after I take off my fucking shoes.