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His shirt was a little big for him, but he tucked the length of it into his pants and lightly tugged on it so the fold hanged in a cool and professional manner over his buckle.Īnd his tie, it was the only one he had ever bought. He always kept them at such a shine and his pants they were never wrinkled and were ironed just right, so the pleats stuck out like the fold in his favorite novel. John was staring at his reflection on the tips of his shoes. Can I bang two?” Stefan asked, looking to John with genuine concern rasping his brow. She was fucking hot, even when she was chubby. “I think I’m suicidal, but I’m not sure.” I don’t think I’d want to do anything nasty, though. Yeah, I’d definitely fuck Jennifer Connelly. Like she could be your neighbor or teaching your kid in school and yet at the same time, she has this super sexy side with massive tits and you just know she’d make you cum in a second. Seductive and shapely but natural at the same time. I don’t know if I decided all of this or if it just settled around me while I was sleeping or something.” I just don’t know how the fuck I came to this point. I know what I have to do and for what I have to do, up to know, I know exactly what I’ve done and what I’ve still yet to do. “I mean, I know who I am and I know what I do. “I can’t remember a single choice I ever made,” said John, now shaking the cup so that the cold coffee stormed like a raging sea. Neither of them were in the way of passing workers but Stefan’s lingering stare and twitching ear grasped the lapels of busied and personal discourse, silently begging, like the basketball player nobody wants, to be picked to give his opinion, to share his thoughts and to laugh as heartily as he saw the other guys doing. John and Stefan sat on the steps to the office building. Who would you fuck? How would you do it?” Let’s say you could fuck whoever you wanted and you could fuck them whatever way you wanted and they weren’t you know, gonna make you feel dirty about it or nothing. “So who would you fuck?” he asked, turning back to John. He kept waving anyway as if they had as if it was just their way and he made a strange gesture with his fingers to no one in particular as if he were asking for two of something. None of them seemed to notice, but that didn’t matter to Stefan. Stefan was waving at a group of guys who had just piled off a coach and were slapping each other’s backs and high fiving one another as they joked out loud about celebrities they’d love to fuck and how they’d do it to them. “I feel that way about my life,” John said, twisting his cup back and forth, his cold and untouched coffee spilling in a single line down over his index finger and onto the table. I try not to drive tired, on account of it being so dangerous, but yeah” Stefan said, sipping his Mocha, “I once drove through the night when I was in university with some friends you know, back in the days where you’re reckless and living like there’s no tomorrow. You just, can’t remember for the life of you, how you got here.
The only thing you know is that you’re pretty sure this is where you’re supposed to be home or work or the supermarket.
You don’t know if you leaned into any of the turns and you can’t be sure or not if you ran over an animal or a mother pushing a pram across the street. You were asleep or dreaming the whole time or something. You know, so tired that even if were to crash, you probably wouldn’t even feel a thing anyway? And then you get home or wherever the hell you’re going and you take the keys out of the ignition and you think to yourself, ‘how the fuck did I get here?’ You can’t remember a bit of the journey. “You ever driven all night, really tired. This short story was inspired by the song: Support independent art before it cuts off its own ear
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