[another early one from years ago...and once again i'll add the disclaimer that these older stories don't "quite count"...whatever that means...i'm not sure if i meant to name the character "Gregor" or that was a freudian typo (i.e. minus 'y') that brought about the actual reference instead of its thinly veiled allusion...probably the latter, but until i run across the original handwritten version i'll just keep it the way it is...and from my current vantage i wonder why i even gave him a name in the first place as it only appears once and he's the only male! superfluous, i know...one of the reasons i have to give such older works that disclaimer...but overall i rather enjoy it...anyway, i'm talking too much...update: as my memory comes back somewhat, i think "Gregor" was the intended name...ach! Die Verwandlung! oh well...]

The University was empty, dead. Grey sky mirrored grey sidewalks and sickly trees twisted out of the ground'thin, sparsely defining the geometry of the walkways: 5 meters apart, each right angle. A loudspeaker blared Christmas songs for everybody that wasn't there to hear. Years ago, someone might have found this idea to be novel, cheerful, but the empty songs echoing off the tall, dilapidated buildings mingling with the dull drone of some machinery somewhere behind the library seemed like some sort of self-parody that never made any sense to begin with. "Hallelujah". . . "Jingle Bells". . . "Grandma Got Run Over by a Reindeer". . . for fuck's sake. Gregor stood upon this academic wasteland in search of the one thing of value he knew it had to offer: hot, Asian pussy.
He made a circle around the large courtyard between the library and the math building. He saw no one at first, but on the second pass there was a small group of Asian girls. One was taking pictures of another shrouded in cap and gown. After three clicks, she put the camera back into her pocket. It was time to make his move. He walked up and flashed a twenty. No response. Uppity twats. He walked on.
It was cold and the wind was blowing his hair about his eyes. This grey morning was masked behind a screen of swaying, black wires and the white smoke of condensing air. He circled around again. Nothing. Another pass. Some Caucasians, an Indian, a few Hispanic girls, Venezuelan? ¡tontería! He put his hands in his pockets knowing he could never be truly warm. . . without those two minutes inside some indifferent, Asian grad-student'a soft, warm place: safe and comforting, where he can discard his emptiness and leave it behind, walking away, until tomorrow or next week or how ever the fuck long it takes to find its way back to him. There's always the hope that it'll like its new home, maybe stay a little longer, perhaps never wanna leave, but the emptiness is his and it knows where it belongs'a faithful dog, he should be proud.
It was his seventh round when he saw her'arms folded neatly around the books she was carrying, shoulder-length hair that moved in a delicate stride, matching her walk: a grad-student. . . or possibly a senior in an extended year. He knew he had to fuck her. The twenty. A slight nod of her head and they were quietly heading toward the grove of bushes that wandered about the courtyard's center.
She lay down accompanied by a soft chorus of rotting leaves cracking on the damp ground. A quick ballet nearly encompassing a single gesture had their underwear down and genitals exposed. He pushed in. A few thrusts and he looked into her eyes, filled with distance and slow-moving clouds. They were the most beautiful thing he had ever seen in his life. He grabbed a handful of her left tit. Her lips slid apart'a neutral grunt. And now two handfuls of her ass: soft, soft, soft. . .
"So, you come here often?"
"Don't talk to me."
He complied.
Ninety-four seconds later, it was done. As he came, the chorus of "Jingle Bell Rock" echoed off these cavernous walls in some desperate reverb lost in its own sound, back and forth, again and again'ten seconds of a miserable eternity. He was outside again. He dropped the twenty on the leaves, zipped his jeans, and walked away.

Oh, Come All Ye Faithful
The library's massive doors shut behind him and he breathed in deep. The entryway narrowed sharply. He began to make his way down the long corridor lined nearly to the ceiling with boxes stacked up in a precise replication of disorder. And it twisted along seemingly forever, oscillating wildly in its breadth, narrowing here, widening ever-so-slightly there, always twisting along, like some insane, unary maze: pointless, yet functional. The only company one had on this trek, aside from the boxes, was hanging from a thin, motionless wire: lightbulb after lightbulb after lightbulb. And at the end, it opened up into a giant room, almost like a warehouse, except the boxes were in the hallway: here there were gigantic shelves (20 meters high) lined up, row upon row, with books. Sliding ladders were scattered about to reach the top.
He knew just where the section he wanted was. And six steps up he found a book that suited the afternoon's reading: Auditory Scene Analysis: the Perceptual Organization of Sound by Albert S. Bregman. He found a table by the small windows on the side and began reading.
It was dark by the time he looked up (a mere few hours later). How quickly grey dissolves into black. He was struck by the beauty of the glowing orange spheres of incandescent bulbs dotting the courtyard, setting the sparse, geometric template that the trees mimicked. And the rain hit. It poured. Arcs of light bent around the drops clinging to the window in clusters: sliding down, shifting their distortion. And it continued to rain as he turned back to his book, washing away all the blood, tears, sweat, and semen of the world. . . down into the gutters, away. . . wishing you a merry Christmas.

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