an introduction to a story i am thinking about writing


What I remember

I am with this girl and we are at this bar. It was a bar that she recommended. She orders the drinks from a bartender that obviously likes her and shows the strength of his emotion in the poem of drink. We are drunk, her more so than me. Her hand is in my crotch and I begin to worry about performing rather than driving. Everything becomes a blur. I get up to take a piss and while starring at myself in the mirror come to the conclusion that she will like me more if I just walk out on her. I pay the bartender with my credit card, which I believe to still be at the bar (I donít know and will have to remind my self to check out of curiosity.)

She was a beautiful girl, with a long slender face and slow arching eyebrows that never came to an angle but rather outlined her eyes like small rainbows. The small of her back seemed to always be exposed, and perhaps this was the part I liked most about her. When thinking back it was the reason I asked her out in the first place. Her skin was innocent. She didnít smoke, which I liked and I drank too much which she didnít like, nor my doctor. ďYou are killing yourself.Ē He would say to me. but a was fucking his secretary, so I knew I was living it up a little and that was what brought me to that bar with her on that very night. One day we were discussing writers and writing and I happened to mention Nicholson Bakerís fine attention to detail, which lead me to his book Fermata and the ability to stop time in order to write women erotica and plant in places for them to find when time started back up again and out of this spawned the dirty talk and phone calls and passing of notes which we seemed to enjoy so much. I think of her a lot, I also think of the ability to stop time and if I was able to would I have stopped time on that very night? Chances are most likely, but not knowing the future I would have stopped it only in order to sober up, while she slowly became a drunk like slut of whom I would soon be banging. A little cock mongrel that would go home with me, sleep in my bed and wake up right next to me with a wicked hangover. I think of this now when I think of her, when I think of her golden tinted eyes and her dark brown hair, when I think of her pussy lips, when I think of her fetish for cupping my balls and licking my anus. I have seen her twice since then. My plan to leave the bar that night, to leave her sitting there drastically back fired. She didnít like me more, she didnít call me the next day, and she isnít even speaking to me because she is dead. And this is what I remember. Everyone is dead, the world is dead, the cars are dead and the bums are dead the gas station pumps the stock market, the oil tankers drifting out at sea until the currents tides and wind smash them ashore. Whole entire high ways full of stalled out cars, ATM machines with screens that have gone black months ago, melted frozen food products, rotten garbage and of course rotting people. I sit here writing what I remember and I must admit it seems so exaggerated... like a movie, something to do with world war three, or a massive outbreak of some African disease, The stand! And all that shit, but this is different it is not any of that, it is something simple, something normal, something that happens everyday... stick with me and you will see.