A small intuitive feeling sits steadily in the bottom of that endless pit, awaiting to rise but as of the moment it is sitting still until the moment. And what is the right moment? I think it is when my heart is heavy, my eyes glowing, and my teeth showing in a luminescent smile. The lamp in the corner burns my eyes, darkens my perception about what is around me, making me feel like a false reality. Almost like a ghost sifting in between materials, softening up to the light touch and senses around him. Sometimes I do not feel like a ghost sifting through my thoughts one after another. After all, my perceptions are all astray in the universe, or at least, that’s what I think about myself.

And the universe? What is the universe and what am I? Atoms swirling around each other, making sure never to collide. After awhile, though, I am bored of these thoughts. They are never new, exciting, or even strange but, rather, they are juvenile. A mere way to pretend to be what I am not, and what never will come of me: intelligence. I do not want to focus on the inevitable, though, about me, him, her, and the past bleeding into the present. My own past took all the work that I could get to stop those thoughts, so I think I will concentrate on the universe and try to figure out all the problems here on earth.

Don’t you know I was afraid for so long and my past still pokes me on the shoulder when it is dark? I do not hide it, I do not avoid it and I do not toss a coin with it playing the “lazy irrational thinker”. It hides in the dark on my walk home and likes to slowly creep up on me. The past bleeds into the present slowly, one molecule at a time, one breath at a time and one blink at a time. While my chest raises, yours lowers; while my eyes open wide, yours close. Do you still think of her? Oh, do not answer “yes and no” but show me when we are close and lips parted or pursed together. My lips are pursed together.

“Dear…do you want another drink?” I ask as I rise and make the stiff walk to the whiskey. Sound travels, I think, and look down to see my knees shaking. The cap squeaks as I open the plastic bottle bit by bit, partially because I want to seem sober. If I can fool myself, then I can fool the world. I pour slowly, my back turned and drop the ice cubes in one at a time. I like it when the fuzz hits the top and the ice cracks.

“Yes…but I will take it myself.” Says my lover carefully. He lights a smoke and takes fast drags, but slowly exhales and watches the smoke linger in front casually making smoke rings.

“Yes…yes, of course you do. I make mine lightly, don’t I.”

“Oh, I don’t know.” A soft chuckle comes. “I just drink fast! That’s all.” My lips purse together, his smile is wide, although he never smiles that wide.

“Yes. I do drink slow. I like to enjoy my drinks, don’t you know? I suppose it’s just from me being an American.” A hand comes onto my thigh, resting as if I were some other body while his eyes advert.

“I like Americans.” That sentence is not forced for his voice speaks lightly of the past. Yes, I do know that he likes Americans.

“Yes…I know.” My voice is soft, cured and intelligent.

“Did I do something wrong?” He calls from the far distant past while his voice is weak and his eyes shiny.

“No…” I call back. Does he even really know what has happened in the past? Is it a game I play trying to blame myself for stepping into a co-workers apartment alone…No, it’s not my fault, I think out loud. My one mistake.

Want to comment on this Short Stories? Sign up to Edit Red and you will be able to comment on Short Stories and get access to: Upload your own stories and poems, get readers and their feedback, promote your work...