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Comfort of a Stranger
'Excuse me, Miss? Ma'am?' He sat a handkerchief on the table in front of her and pulled a chair up to her table. She wiped her eyes and looked at him, confused. 'You just look like you might need someone to talk to.'
She pushed the cloth away and shook her head. 'Thanks, Mister, but I'd rather just be alone.'
'Come on. Sometimes the best person to talk to is someone you don't know.'
'No, thank you, no.'
'Suit yourself.' He rose to his feet and returned to his table.
She stared at the forgotten handkerchief. 'Damnit.' She picked it up and carried it to him. 'Here, you left this at my table.'
'Thanks.'
'Do you like this place?'
He looked around, taking in the overdone 1950's dΓ©cor. 'It's alright.'
'No. I don't mean this diner. This town. Do you like this town?'
'I don't really know. I've actually only been in town a couple of weeks. That's why I wanted to talk to you. Thought maybe you could give me some tips on what to do.'
'There's nothing to do.'
'What do you do for fun?'
'I sit in cheesy diners and cry to pick up men.'
'Really? What is there to do around here?'
'I hate this place. Nevermind, sorry to have bothered you.'
He grabbed, uselessly, at her hand as she returned to her own table. He followed her. 'You're not bothering me. Really. May I sit down?'
'If I say no, will you go away or will you do it anyway?'
He pulled the chair back to the table. 'I guess you're right. And I guess I do like it here. I mean the town. It's quiet.'
'It's silent.'
'Where would you rather be?'
She shook her head. 'I don't know. Anywhere else. How old are you?'
'Twenty-three.' He hesitated. 'Am I supposed to ask you?'
'Twenty-seven. That was my point. I am twenty-seven years old. I live in a room that is pretending to be an apartment in my parents' basement. I haven't been on a date in four years, since my fiance packed up and moved out of our apartment while I was out of town. No note, no phone call. Got home, his shit was gone. Now, I go to work. I go home. I come here when I want to be alone. That's it. That's why I am crying. I don't need to talk to strangers. I have friends. They are where he is. I left them behind when he left me. Here is your handkerchief back.'
'Miss?' He waved his hand over his head at the girl, no more than sixteen, in a pink poodle skirt and tied-high bouncy brown ponytail. 'My friend here could use a piece of pie.'
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| Cool story!! It holds the power of the loner, the tragedy of isolation, the loss of friends when a loved one moves on, leaves, from break-up. We've all been there, done that, felt the isolation as the friends we made through lovers are severed when the relationship ends, and this is the tragic power this story brings powerfully home. Nicely done. |
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Comment by: jgilgun - 2008-03-13 06:41
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You really hit at something. There is a poignancy to this. I hope that you write her a future. I suppose if she gets a kick in the pants, the story would not be as interesting, but I would like to see something happen, perhaps she really goes down the rabbit hole and what will she find there.
It sounds as if she is into self-blame, too, as if she has done something wrong. She could use my book called On Being a Shit: Unkind Deeds and Cover-Ups in Everyday Life available at http://www.lulu.com/content/1151441
Good luck with your writing. You have really got something with your writing.
best wishes
Jane |
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Comment by: celiza - 2008-01-15 04:15
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| This is really interesting. I liked their interaction, the hesitation of the girl, and finally, her blurting out whats bothering her. I really enjoyed reading this. |
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I agree you did a great job with the dialogue, but do question the use of "Mister" it made the MC sound like a very young girl with a runny nose to me.
I loved the line about sitting in cheesy diners. It said quite a bit about her, self-deprecating, sarcastic, but slightly inviting more conversation. His response of βReally?β was great, it dismissed her remark and moved on. Well done with that.
I do agree that a handkerchief is sadly a bit incongruous with a twenty-three-year old guy these days.
Wouldnβt change the last para, I mean, who wears a pink poodle skirt and a high-tied ponytail these days except a waitress?
Also, I relate about not liking where you live. Nice job, interesting story. |
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A dream of a 1950's vision.
I love writing in different era's.
Nice short usage of words- easy to read. |
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