

ONE DAY in SEPTEMBER

BY MATTHEW TURNER

Smashwords Edition

Published by Turndog Publishing

Copyright © 2014 Matthew Turner. All Rights Reserved

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love & living begins now
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS:

Writing a book is a lonely endeavour, but to say it's a lonesome task is simply not true. I have many people to thank, but will try not keep you. After all, you have a book to read, right?

To begin with, let me pay homage to my gorgeous son, George Lee Potter—or as I so lovingly brand him: Kid Turndog. You are my shining light and daily muse. Thank you for being here and smiling when I see you. It warms my heart.

Second, I must thank my parents as they give too much and take nothing at all. The words I cannot say in person shall be said here instead. I hope this is enough—and don't worry, I aim to pay my debts (both financial and emotional) in full one day. And to my other family and close friends, I love you too. Whether I see you often or not, you know who you are. You have a special place in my heart and I know, whenever I require guidance or good-times, that you have my back. Thank you!

As One Day in September is part of a larger body of work (Tick to the Tock) there are several people to thank for their amazing offerings. Firstly, Susan Gotfried, my editor, and Kirsty Vizard and Amanda Liston, both of whom have helped take Tick to the Tock and One Day in September to where it is today. I don't deserve your support, but I'm sure glad to have it.

It would be a shame to forget about Beyond Parallel, too, and all of the people who have taken time to read and review. You may not know it, but your feedback helps me each and every day. The love spurs me on, and the criticism and advice is what drives me to be better. Without Beyond Parallel, this book wouldn't exist, and without the feedback from my first novel, I fear the second would be nowhere near as good.

THANK YOU ALL!

And that about covers all I need to cover. Although it would be a shame to leave without arguably the most important thank you of all: to you, the reader. There's nothing greater than when someone cares enough to read my soul. Cheers

____________________________

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Dedicated To The Kid, My Son, My One—and—Only

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11.32am—Wilbur Day

This world is spectacularly imperfect, but I'm gifted to be part of an existence with such vibrant colour. No more than here, right now—in front of a wall of varying shades of paint and pastels and chalks—is this glorious insight into the world's most precious resource present: colour... lovely, ticklish, seducing colour.

It isn't only red, it's: auburn, cardinal, burgundy, rose, ruby, scarlet, vermillion, flame, folly, lust, magenta, and my favourite, crimson. Sure, to the novice, ruby and rose are red, but to the eye of the creator it's the difference between perfection and despair. Some may say I spend too much time in art shops like this, but I disagree, because other's don't spend enough precious minutes in places that matter. A wall of colour matters. A tabletop of paper, each unique to the touch and varying in shades of beige, is important. Row after row of brushes and pencils and the aroma—oh-my-oh-my—what a pleasant and familiar taste on my tongue it is, like at home in my studio, or back at school during the only class I cared for, or late at night—making love—on top of a freshly crowned masterpiece as the process either destroys or completes it.

I pick up a brush and flick it through my fingers, savouring each sliver. It's dull outside, not to the point of rain, but I fear this day will never kick on with a flourish. A few weeks ago, I wore a thin shirt and rolled my light green chinos up into a shorts-pant hybrid. I needn't wear socks and sunglasses never left my forehead, and I was warm all of the time so long as I kept moving. No longer the case, I'm afraid, for now I wear a maroon speckled tweed jacket and a thicker pair of chinos that soak up the heat and light. And although I still drift without socks, my chilled toes dance.

Autumn should be my season of choice, as it's the one time of year where colour doesn't exist in a single form, rather in multi-hue. The browns and reds and maroons are delicious and tempting, and ever so inspiring, but the chill and damp and windy wetness drags me down, down, down.

I miss summer's smile already, a delicate touch that posses everyone and opens a window into an existence of fabulous opportunity. Ethan, Dante, and I drank care-free cider on a patch of sun in one of York's lovely parks, and we did not care whether it was a work night or school night or any other night for that matter. We simply appreciated the now and the fun, and the liveable life of spontaneity—well, to an extent, anyway. After all, Ethan has his limits, and they are far more limited than most. Oh Ethan, m'boy, you crazy fool. I love you, but how we are friends I do not know.

The sun sneaks through a patch of cloud, creeping around the corner and stalking the streets residing outside, not yet peeking into this shop, but I sense it wants to. It's curious, the September sun. It's jealous of its July cousin, a sun that peers down for hours each day. Oh poor Virgo sunshine, what a shame you remain behind clouds, forbidden to come out to play. I wish you could, and maybe, just maybe, if you broke the rules, you could and would.

I'm no longer stood in front of the colourful array of paint, rather holding an art book of some kind—although I don't recall picking it up. I'm trapped in here, and lonely, and maybe I should have stayed in bed, but that wouldn't have worked either, because once up I must be up, up, up and at the world, and kicking stones and imagining the unimaginable and playing and laughing and inventing. This is the worst time of day. I could call Ethan, but he wouldn't answer, and although Dante would—oh Dante, m'lad in shining hope—he wouldn't chat for long; instead insisting I get ready for my show in a few weeks time.

"Ah yes," I say out loud, I think. "That is why I'm here right now," I continue, this time in my head.

"James Ford, you devilish art shop owner, you," I say out loud and proud and striding towards the desk he's shielded by—my mysteriously acquired art book still in hand, of course. "How are you, good sir?"

"You've already asked me, Wil," he says, eyes unmoving, devouring his own book.

"What's that, good man?"

He looks up for a brief second. "When you came in. You asked me how I was. It was like twenty minutes ago."

"Hmmm, of course, yes, well, no matter, no matter, what are you reading? And are you coming to my show in a few weeks time?"

He tilts his book and showcases its cover: Good Omens. "Ah, very good, truly awful book. Truly awful. And my show? Will you be joining me?"

"When is it again?"

"The first week in November."

"That's weeks away."

"Ah yes, you are correct, but these things take time to organise and prepare and perfect. I must send the anxious need rollicking inside you now, for otherwise you may forget."

He's smiling, his lips coming to say hello for the first time, usually hidden by that forest of beard consuming his cheeks, and worse, neck—to the point where it connects with his chest hair. Oh, James, you hairy gorilla. Evolution is a man's friend, don't you know.

"And beside," I say, "I need the opinion of real men. My god forsaken father will bring his minions, and although they will spend money—sucking up to his putrid backside—their opinions matter not."

"And mine does?"

"Why of course, you are a man of my world."

His grin returns, not as large this time. "Sure, I'll try to make it. I'll tell some friends about it, too." He slides his book to one side and leans across the counter, his lengthy mane escaping the hold from behind his ears, and flapping before his eyes. "You should probably be nicer to your dad's friends, though. Do you know how hard it is to make money these days?"

"Pshhhh," I blow. "Money is fine so long as you have the approval from those that matter."

"I'm just saying—"

"Of course, of course, but you'll come?"

"Sure," he shrugs. "Remind me closer to the time."

"Superb and marvellous, I think you'll enjoy the eclectic range on offer. My muse has taken many a form recently. Quite a crazy bunch of pieces it is." Spinning, I drop the book still in my hands, and stride towards the window; the sun once again hidden and dead.

Music quietly fills the room, and up until now I've barely registered it, but as soon as the first notes of Iggy Pop enters my space, I cringe. "Oh-my-oh-my, James," I say, still watching the outside from within. "Why on earth do you insist on such awful music. I gave you a John Coltrane album two weeks ago. Play that, my good man. Or anything but this clamour."

"Yeah, I listened to it," he says, raising his voice a tad. "It's awful. Do you actually listen to that stuff."

My shoulders stiffen at the sound, for if there's one thing that rattles me more than most it's my musical tastes doubted. "Wash your mouth, James Ford," I say, twisting and facing him in an effortless swoop. "He is a master."

"Iggy Pop is a master."

"Hmmmm, maybe your opinion isn't as grand as first thought."

He smiles that bearded smile once more, his tatty Sex Pistols T-Shirt bulging over his swollen belly. Not great, but certainly better than Iggy Pop, although it's black and dull and so void of life. James is a man of art, so where is his colour and whimsy? Why do so many people hide in the background when there are delicate purples to enjoy, and salmon pinks and lime greens and amber oranges that play with your senses. There are times when a single outfit of mine has more colour than Ethan's and Dante's combined, which is expected from that dullard, Ethan, but Dante... he could be so colourful if he chose.

I turn my attention back outside in time to watch a single car blur past, followed by another, then another, but then the road is vacant and tranquil for a few seconds, until a large, bustling bus rumbles along and shakes the window's frame. Soon the streets will fill with lunchtime madness, but for now the morning lull continues, and wait, what is this? A familiar face. Not Ethan or Dante, nor another welcoming sight, rather a girl, and not any girl, but the most petulant one I've ever come across.

Daniella Adams, you Medusa inspired witch.

She walks, I assume, hand-in-hand with Jon, although I've never met the unfortunate bloke, only descriptions of his tall and lanky figure from Dante. It is true, he is tall and lanky, and rather gangly as well. I imagine if we evolved from grasshoppers instead of apes, we might all resemble Jon—last name unknown.

They're walking slowly, grasping one another in romantic nonsense. A normal person would have passed by now, but not Danii and her stupidly slow feet. She destroyed my friend, my best of friends, and she still has hold of his confused and idiotic heart.

The moment I first met her—the way she shook my hand with those long, slim fingers; smiled with that long, slimmer mouth; penetrated me with that stare, which had no right gazing into my soul—I had a bad feeling. I saw the look in Dante, a look of love, not lust.

I don't particularly understand the need for lust in all honesty, but I can just about grasp the thought. Love, however? Why on earth would he love a girl he barely knew, never mind a girl so clearly as inept as... Danii.

She was nice, of course, they always are in the beginning. I could also see the attractive appeal: tall legs, wavy brown hair that shines in the light, pretty face and pretty smile, and worse of all—at least when it comes to Dante—deep, succulent, mysterious eyes.

Still, hesitation ran through me, and has ever since, and now, even though she has gone, she hasn't. She's still within him and haunts our conversations. Months and months and months it's been, but still she enters our night-out chatter when all we should be chatting about is fun and merriment and how gorgeous one set of pins is compared to another.

She's passing now, her feet invisible below a table of books and notepads, and she doesn't see me, not so much a twist of her slim and boney neck. Oh Daniella, how I hate you and your unrelenting ways. My best of friends was perfect the way he was, why did you have to place doubt in him. Why oh why couldn't you let him be who he be, for if you did, maybe, just maybe, I would see something pleasant in your seductive and manipulative frame.

Dante King suits his name. He's a delightful wallflower: smart and interesting, fun and sensible, kind and genuine. I sometimes fret at his reluctance, but in truth it's probably needed, although I would never admit it, not to him nor anyone else.

He's also one of the most impressionable folk I know, how frustrating and annoying this is. Ethan may be rational and frustrating in his own right, but at least he's happy to be himself. He laughs at those who doubt his lifestyle, and although I ridicule his choice of suit... and shoes... and t-shirts... and everything else he wears—he is a brave man... a strong man... a respectable chap. Chalk to my cheese, of course, but a man of definitive action.

Dante is a chameleon of ever-switching nonsense, when in actual fact he's the best of us all—not only between Ethan, he, and I, but the world, I suspect. It's hard to expect others to understand my ways when I don't fully understand them myself, but Dante always sticks up for me, defends me, and stands beside me. He will be there at the Art Show, loving every piece even though it's lost on him, and he will gleam with pride and share it with others as though it's his own.

He wanted love, but didn't. He thought he'd found it in Danii, but hadn't. Such a confused man for no reason to worry but to worry itself. And now, as I watch the traitorous girl slink away into the gloomy distance, I scowl because I know what she did to him, and although he won't admit it, Dante does, too. People focus on sexual straying as a relationship's demise, but this isn't it. It's the selfish linger of wanting the other to change and be more like the person you want them to be. These people always try to change the world because they can't change themselves, but never will they change me. I only wish I could say the same for Dante, because if there's a single person on this tainted and fragile planet already perfect, it's he.

Maybe I should call him and share my chance glance of Daniella Adams and her hand-holding with the man named Jon. It would give me reason to call him and hear his voice and break my lonesome thoughts, but then again, it would also provide reason to think of her and dwell on his unfortunate past.

Ethan, on the other hand, brings all the positives with none of the negatives. Ah yes, Ethan m'boy, you are the man of the moment.

"What do you want, Wil?" he says, picking up on the fourth ring.

"Ah, Ethan m'boy, how are you, good sir? How are you?"

"I'm good, thanks. I'm also at work, so what do you want?"

"Yes, of course, of course. I want to share a little tale I think you might like."

"Wil—"

"I'm merely minding my own business, buying supplies and gazing at colour, when who drifts past but the wicked witch of the ye old west."

"So you saw Danii?"

"I did indeed, with Jon of all people, and would you like to know something? Dante's right. He's tall and gangly and insect-like. It also proves my point: how she will dig her claws into any unsuspecting victim, regardless of handsome outlook."

"You never said that."

"I think I did," I say, tapping my chin and staring at a shelf of strange wooden sculptress. They're awful. "And if I didn't, I most certainly thought it."

He breathes heavy, panting slightly like a dog. "This is all well and good, Wil, but why the hell are you telling me this?"

"What do you mean, chap?"

"Well, no offence, but who the hell cares?"

I reach for one of the hideous wooden do-tads, but decide against it. "I thought Dante might—"

"Please tell me you haven't called him."

"No, I was thinking of doing so after—"

"Wil, do not tell Dante about it. It'll ruin his day. Leave him be."

"But, Ethan my old mucker, I'm bored and in need of conversations with those I love."

"I don't care."

"How about—"

"No!"

"Hmmm, yes, yes, of course, but what about—"

"No," he says, stern and sullen, although it's hard to tell whether he's angry because this is how he always sounds.

"Ethan m'boy, say no more. I understand, and I shall not call him... If..."

"Let me guess, if we meet for a drink tonight?"

"Ah, Ethan you old dark house, why I would love to." I switch my phone from one hand to the other, swaying on my toes, already giddy with anticipation. "Yes, yes, we can meet and drink and have some food, and then—"

"No! There's no 'and then', okay? We're meeting for a drink. That's it."

I laugh, knowing he means well, but I also know he's wrong. "Yes, yes, of course. School night and all. We shall see—"

"No, Wil. No 'we shall see'. I swear to god if you manage to keep Dante out tonight I'll set fire to your art."

"From ashes-to-ashes, dust-to-dust—"

"Wil," he says, firm and a tad too loud.

"Of course, of course. A drink—maybe two—but then home we shall swagger, and in bed we shall wander—to dreams and days of yesterday and the possibility of tomorrows..."

"Yeah, sure. Okay, well I've got to go. I'll email Dante and we'll meet you at six."

"Good good, I look forward to it, m'boy."

I push the phone into my tight chino pocket and spin once more, straining my back to check if James continues to read that awful book of his. He is, and so I leave him to it and walk towards the door. I sense I came to this shop for a reason, but what that reason is I cannot remember. It wasn't to see Danii, that is for sure, and I'm certain it wasn't to arrange exciting pub-land adventures with Ethan.

Hmmm, never mind, I shall return when I need to and wander until then. I look at my tatty old Casio watch: 12:03pm. Several hours to enjoy before more are enjoyed with friends. Ethan says a drink or two, but I cannot accept this, not on such a lovely day. I shall do my best to sway their mind—and with Ethan I will fail, this I don't doubt—but with Dante I may succeed, and for this I'm excited.

Not so long ago this was our world: heading out for adventure because it was a cheap student event somewhere. It was only—what—a year since we graduated, but the way those two sometimes act, they didn't graduate from University, they graduated from life. Nine-to-five madness during Monday-to-Friday torture, how they grin and bear it is beyond me. I suppose this is what Ethan was born to do, but my best friend... at the mercy of the daily grind... when he still has so much life ahead of him...? Oh the pain.

Tonight the two of us will re-live old times, for it's alive with students somewhere, which means unsuspecting ladies in ignorant mood. I miss the summer sunshine, as it brings shorter skirts and lower tops, and this makes everything all the more enjoyable, let alone easier. Still, the clothes remain light as winter has yet to kick in, and in many ways, I look forward to the challenge of colder seasons.

Wearing practically nothing leaves little to the imagination, but wrapped in a coat or wooly and cozy jumper, well, anyone or anything could rest under such mysterious garments. Hmmm, I can practically smell the desperate perfume and freshly washed hair. The room will stink of musky sweat and beer, but the despair of each pathetic girl and shameless boy will soon put that to bed.

I'll have my fun and chat and wander, and with Dante—oh yes, I shall twist his arm yet—I'll show him a life he should be well acquainted with. It isn't about the deed, you see, rather the journey. Seduction is better than sex, and leaving them yearning for more is greater than a clumsy mouth on member.

It's cool outside, but not cold, and buttoning my maroon speckled tweed jacket from bottom to top, I straighten and dust the shoulders and quicken my step in to a bounce. Already I'm warmer and walking the same direction as Danii, but I doubt I shall pass her again, for she'll be controlling Jon and dictating where they go—to a makeup store, maybe, or a place selling awful 'Chart Music'. Such a sheep. Such a lemming. Such a waste of oxygen.

Taking a deep breath, I look upward at the light grey clouds; not a hint of blue in sight. It's depressing, so I lower my stare to the trees, and in an instant I beam because colours shine all around, not as dark and ambient as they will be in a few weeks, but beautiful all the same.

Like a novice looks at colours, they no doubt see leaves as leaves, but in the eye of the creator... oh, we see much more. My muse works its way up my chest and tickles my fingertips, sending them in a frenzy and into the inside pocket of my vintage crimson waistcoat. Before I know it, I'm holding my trusty notepad and worn down pencil, and sketching, simply sketching away.

I have no idea what it is yet, but soon will. In a matter of minutes nothing will become something. How wonderful. How spectacularly imperfect this world is.
14.43—Ethan Knight

This A4 sheet of paper taunts me, but not for much longer. A short paragraph followed by a dozen bullet-points, surrounded by a white mess quizzing me, desiring a particular part of my attention. It's a problem for now, but not for long. This is why it's on my desk.

Mr Holloway knows what to do when a new process is required. He discovered this during my summer internship, offering me 'busy work' he'd no doubt ignore, but my results demanded intrigue, which lead to 'real work', which, in due course, a part-time job whilst I finish my degree, and finally, a full time position which I now proudly occupy.

I wasn't the most intelligent in my class, in fact I've never been in the upper bracket of anything, but I was the only one to acquire a job before the final exams were taken. You don't need ridiculous intellect when you have hard work and focus. If anything, I find intelligent people to be dangerous. Wil is intelligent, probably the smartest person I know, but he's also the most idiotic. Intellectuals often waste what they have, but good work ethic is available to anyone, and that's why this A4 sheet of paper is on my desk and nobody else's—not that anyone would want it.

Many find the job of an accountant tedious and uneventful, but I love it. Many accountants hate this task, but I relish what's in front of me. Different clients desire different workflows, but I solve each process in the same manner: I relate it to my day.

6.00am—radio alarm goes off. Force eyes open and count to thirty

6.04am—listen to one full song and roll out of bed, performing fifteen push ups

I don't know why, but focussing on my own day provides clarity and vision. The process unravels before me: who needs to do what job, the meetings required, the dates in the diary and so on and so on.

I told Dante about it once, his eyes widening as far as they would go, skepticism flush across his cheeks. He's seen my rather particular day first hand, and although I know it isn't for everyone, I don't understand why people find it hard to believe. Each to their own, surely?

6.05am—shower, loofa entire body with Herbal Essence Body Wash, rinse, and repeat. Wash hair with Head and Shoulder two-in-one every other day.

Taking a deep breath, I push the sheet of paper to one side and bring my keyboard closer, running fingertips over the glossy keys before clicking the familiar seven letter password. The screen comes to life, although I don't waste time with wallpapers and screen-savers. A plain green backdrop suits me fine.

I love the sound of keys clicking beneath fingers. It reminds me work is being done and progress is being had. I don't listen to music at my desk, so the sounds of this micro environment I exist in between the hours of eight-thirty and five-fifteen are all too clear. It isn't a loud office, but there's always the clacking of someone else's keys or the vague chatter of a phone conversation where only half the discussion is heard.

If I hear this instead of my own keyboard it demonstrates how others are working whereas I am not. This isn't right, for I've always been the focussed one. Even at school, when Dante and I always remained in the same groups as each other, he wasted away the hours as I focussed on the job at hand. Only once have I been in a group with Will before, and I vowed never again. No library has experienced such noise levels as that day. Bloody moron!

6.09am—brush teeth, floss, mouthwash, spit, more mouthwash, spit, wet face, wash face with Herbal Essence Face Scrub, rinse, moisturise—always in that order.

The clap of keys is all the music I need right now, and this is the time of day I love the most. It's when others begin to fatigue, but I find more energy now than at any other time. My ham sandwich on brown bread settles nicely in my stomach, and the fresh orange still refreshes my senses. I'm neither full nor empty, and every inch of me vies for work.

Taking another deep breath, I learn back in the old leather chair and scan the text in progress. The gleam in the screen is bright, the world sitting behind me reflecting clear. A small figure looms large. I lean forward, anticipating the encounter.

"How are you getting on?" asks Mr Holloway, placing his hand on the back of my chair.

"Good sir, I should have it done by the close of play."

"Good, good." He shuffles around the chair and rests his right leg on my desk, picking up the sheet of paper and shaking his head at it. "I'm glad you like doing this stuff because I hate it."

I nod, wondering who used to it before I came. Was it his job?

"So, any exciting plans for tonight?" he asks, placing the paper back down. He shuffles on the desk, the position clearly uncomfortable on his mid fifties spine. I don't particularly understand the need for workplace chit-chat like this, especially between boss and employee. I try and participate the best I can, because I know most relish a break in their day. But me? I'd rather work and leave talk for later.

"I'm going for a few drinks after work."

"Oh yeah? With anyone from the office?"

"No, just a couple of friends. You remember Wil?"

His face firms like most do when Wil is mentioned. He usually leaves an impression, and although he's only met Mr Holloway once—over a year ago now—he isn't someone you forget. "Oh yes, I remember that young man." His chubby cheeks shake from side to side as he laughs his next words. "I couldn't believe the two of you were friends. Polar opposites if ever I've seen it."

"Oh, I know," I reply, trying to match his smile, but probably failing.

"So you're having a drink with him are you? Just make sure you don't come in hungover in the morning."

"Oh, it isn't like that," I say, straightening up. "Just one drink, and I'm mainly going to make sure my cousin doesn't stay out with him. It's okay for Wil, his life is... let's say rather care-free."

Mr Holloway slumps off the desk, dusting down his navy suit and buttoning his jacket. I haven't thought about it before, but this is probably me in thirty years time. I hopefully won't get quite as round and chunky as he, and where his hair is dark brown, mine is light blonde—although I sense I won't have much hair left by then... if my father is anything to go by.

Other than that I'm on the right path: I have several suits like his; my hair slicks back and to the side, like his; he's plain looking, but honest; and Mr Holloway isn't one for splashing out on unnecessary luxuries. He makes a good living, but his car must be fifteen years old.

An epiphany like this would depress Dante—and Wil... well, he may commit suicide—but I love my awaiting potential. All I've ever wanted is a solid career—Check!—A lovely house with a sensible mortgage—Check!—And a wife with maybe a couple of children—not yet, but I've plenty of time.

6.20am—pull on socks followed by underwear, add plain white vest and button-up plain white shirt, get into navy suit trousers, fasten plain black belt, tuck everything in, add plain coloured tie (I have nine to choose from), step into and lace plain black shoes, gel hair backward and to the right (comb through if necessary).

"Okay, good," Mr Holloway says, accompanied by a chubby smile. "If you need any help, let me know." He walks away, patting me on the shoulder as he goes, leaving me alone once again with my desk and work.

6.25am—prepare a bowl of bran flakes with sultanas sprinkled on top, pour a glass of fresh orange juice, make a steaming cup of coffee, turn on the TV to BBC News, and read the morning's edition of The Times on my iPad.

The career is easy, which in turn brings the house, but the wife and kids...

It's not that I find it hard talking to women, although I don't find it easy, but connecting with them on any real level is difficult to say the least. Girls are Wil's department, not that I'd want any girl Wilbur Day touches. He doesn't have a type per se, but they certainly have an unattractive aura. And they're not dumb or ignorant, either. In fact, most are extremely sharp and witty, but they have a certain... gullibility that makes it difficult to feel anything but pity and contempt—although Wil is rather good at bringing the worst out of people.

Dante encourages me to talk to women and allow my fancies to roam free, but I don't want to find someone in the bars and pubs we frequent. In truth, I don't know what I want in a woman. It's the only hazy part of my life. For as long as I can remember, I've made sense of almost everything. My eventual wife? I'm not so sure.

7.15am—wash bowl, spoon, and cups; chop and prepare any vegetables or food for the evening meal; and wipe down kitchen surfaces.

I return to the keyboard, running my fingers over the keys once more. A phone rings to life a couple of desks over, and is quickly answered; the photocopier at the other end of the office is in full flow, spewing out sheet after sheet of lukewarm paper; and a conversation about Star Wars is underway behind me, between John and Bill, I think.

I'm about to resume typing when a buzz breaks to life in my pocket, the sharp vibration notifying me of a message, although I don't have to to take it out to guess who it's from.

Ethan m'boy, I've met a marvellous girl who has a sister you're sure to adore. She likes Pink Floyd, and apparently—although I do not believe this—owns more band related T-Shirts than you. This is your wife, good man.

I've only once allowed Wil to set me up on a date, and I vowed never again. After explaining in great deal who she was, what she looked like, and all the serendipitous passions we shared, I turned up at the bar to find a girl with pink hair and an extremely short dress.

I'm not suggesting the sister or friend or whoever recommended this girl to Wil was lying, rather, Wil didn't listen and only heard what he wanted to. Mr Holloway's observation from earlier is correct: we're very different indeed. Most wonder why we're friends and what brought us together in the first place.

The answer is simple: Dante.

My cousin and I have been best friends for as long as I can remember, connecting on a far grander level than mere blood provides. He's also been friends with Wil for as long as I can remember, which has made the three of us friends for just as long. Will and I don't always see eye-to-eye, in fact we rarely do, but despite our opposite outlooks I couldn't imagine a life without Wilbur Day, although I suspect it'd be easier. But as Dante always points out when I'm at my final tether, he provides entertainment and a certain energy life requires.

7.25am—leave house, lock the door, allow car to run for at least two minutes (whatever the weather), and embark on the journey to work—listening to a Mix CD along the way.

I consider placing the phone back in my pocket, but decide against it, as I know more will follow. Texts don't arrive every day, but they do on most, and they're almost exclusively pointless and demonstrates Wil's need for a real job. The screen on my phone darkens so I illuminate it again and type:

Absolutely not. I will kill you. Leave me alone. I will see you this evening.

Doubting it's enough, I slide the phone on my desk and anticipate its next vibration. Determined to actually get work done this afternoon, I bring my keyboard closer, but before getting chance to roll my fingertips over the keys, the phone shakes and shudders and makes a disturbing racket. Not a message, but a phone call.

Breathing a sigh of relief, I answer "Dante, hello."

"Cousin, how are you?"

"Glad it's you. Wil's harassing me about a girl. There's absolutely no chance."

His laugh floats over the static abyss. "You should give him another shot. You do need a girlfriend, after all."

"I don't need a girlfriend—"

"Sorry, of course, you need a wife. Game, Set, and Match, right?"

"Shut up."

Another laugh. "Okay, okay, fine. Anyway, I read your email. What's this meeting in aid of?"

"You mean Wil hasn't called you?"

"Nope, not yet."

Raising my eyebrows, I grasp the phone tighter. "Wow, he listened for once. First time for everything."

"What do you mean?"

"Nothing, it's fine. And no special occasion, he just wanted to get a drink, although I sense he'll try and keep us both out, but I said no. So stand firm, okay!"

"Don't worry, I shan't be tempted by his seductions tonight. I have the doctor's tomorrow and need an early one. I don't think Doc would approve me stumbling into his office hungover."

I laugh and picture the old silver haired man that's known Dante and I our entire lives. "That he wouldn't. Speaking of which, any more news on the headaches?"

"No, I should find out tomorrow. Probably a few pills or something. Doubt it's much to worry about."

"Yeah... I'm sure. Anyway, I better go and actually get some work done. I've had nothing but distractions today."

"Oh I see how it is. I won't call my beloved cousin in future, shall I?"

"You know the rules, between eight-thirty and five-fifteen, I'm a taken man."

"Yeah, yeah, whatever. Anyway, I'll see you at the pub. Meet a little earlier so we can chat before Wil gets there?"

I smile. "Yes. Shall we say five-thirty?"

"Sure thing. Enjoy being a boring accountant." He signs off, the line deadly silent.

Between 7.55am & 8.05am—Park in my usual spot and walk the two flights of stairs, turn on computer, and, as it loads, create a to-do list for the day ahead. When computer fully wakes, open emails, read and reply to urgent ones, and file the rest away.

Straight away I pull the keyboard, glide my digits over it, and re-engage with the task at hand. In an instant I'm back where I was, typing and highlighting and making sense of the issue staring back.

In a few hours I'll be in the pub that expects us on most evenings. The food is good and the beer is better, and it's perfectly balanced between regular folk coming back again-and-again, and new groups venturing in for the first time—I don't care so much for the new members, but it's imperative Wil has new individuals to sink his eccentric teeth into.

On most occasions it's the three of us, although Dante and I try and meet early and enjoy pre-Wil chatter before the man himself arrives. A night void of Wil would be a strange one, but minutes without him are necessary, as once he arrives conversations usually revolve around his rambling mouth.

His toing and froing from one conversation to another is difficult to keep pace with, and there are certain topics Dante and I enjoy, but Wil refuses: work, rugby, Danii...

12.15pm—take a 15 minute lunch break—grabbing either a ham, chicken, or beef sandwich on brown bread (no salad or sauce) and an orange juice, apple, chocolate chip cookie, and bag of nuts.

The sound of clicking keys hypnotises, my work in full flow. I'll soon be finished with this task and ready to start another, rigorously planing and making to-do lists and notes on the pink and yellow and green postet pads stacked neatly to my right.

Already the office is quieter: the phones ringing less and the typing not as intense. I sense my colleagues tiring, watching the clock and eager for it to reach five so they can go home and be with wives and husbands and sons and daughters.

Maybe if I had a family to go home to I would be eager to finish as well, but I enjoy this world of everyday drudgery. Others hate it, and most of the people in this office do, too. They're here because they have to be, not because they want to, and some days I wonder if I'm the only one who enjoys these plain white walls. I think that's why Mr Holloway likes me and speaks to me and tries to converse in some way or form.

He must sense I like being here, and who knows, maybe he sees me as an ideal candidate to one day take over his role. He has a son but I know he won't take over—he's an actor or writer or something—and although running this place isn't part of the plan, it'd be a welcome addition.

5.10pm—finish whatever task I'm doing, tidy desk, and shut down computer.

6.00pm—prepare meal (or if already out, order meal), eat, and read the evening edition of The Times on my iPad

Click click click goes the keyboard, faster and faster as I pick up speed. My shoulders are tense and will soon ache, but for now they're fine and I can keep working and pushing and going onward and beyond.

A sharp spike shoots up my lower back, so I straighten it out; my old chair squeaking under the pressure and movement. I sometimes wonder what my colleagues think of me: one of the youngest, always working, always serious, and on good terms with Mr Holloway.

I can't say I speak to them all too often, and only at official work related events do I see them outside of the office. Wil thinks I'm insane for accepting a life like this, but I think he's insane for living the way he does. Dante understands because he understands me and who I am, but he still encourages me to loosen up, try new things, let people in, open my eyes...

Then again, I do the same to him. I'm always digging and questioning and urging him to fulfil his amazing potential. How he and Danii ended devastated me, not because I liked Danii—although I did—but because I saw how much she meant to him.

I understand him but not, like he does and doesn't understand me. I suppose we try to, and I suppose trying is enough. It's certainly more than what Wil does. Idiot!

9.00pm—do the ironing, fold and put away, and arrange clothes for tomorrow.

9.30pm—read a book with music playing in the background, and on the first sign of heavy eyes, turn off the light and fall asleep.
17.13—Daniella Adams

Blue or red, red or blue, blue or red. Both are vibrant and lovely and will go with several outfits, providing pop and sparkle to the humdrum corporate world. A blue low heel with zigzagging straps wrapping around the foot and ankle, or a red strapless stiletto with black lining and thread. Which to choose, which to choose... or should I buy both. I could, although it'll hurt the bank balance, and I certainly don't need two pairs of new shoes, but then again just because I don't need doesn't mean I can't have. It is, after all, one of the reasons I chose the world of law. What's wrong with frivolity every now and again. I could get both, in fact I should, but...

"What do you think, Jon?" I ask, dangling the gorgeous blue in one hand and the seductive red in the other. His pupils flick from left-to-right, left-to-right, studying my fingertips and the presents I present. I know deep down he doesn't care for one over the other, but he makes an effort. He takes an interest. Unlike Dante. Bringing him to stores like this was torture. He'd have made fun of me by now, saying they both look the same. Idiot. Three whole years, for what?

"Well," he says, stepping towards me and raising both palms. "They're great, but I think I like the blue. Red is a little..."

"Dangerous?" I say, swinging the red shoe into his arm. Gently of course. Playful.

"I was going to say sexy for the workplace, but sure, dangerous works."

I nod and look up towards the white ceiling with quaint lights and delicate decorations carefully dotted around. There isn't a single item in here for a man. It's been like this most the day. I can't believe how patient he is.

"Or, I could get them both?" I counter.

"Yeah, that too,"he says, laughing and spinning towards the rack of scrumptious sundresses on sale. I hate this weather and how summer's departing, but I love the left over stock now half the price.

"This would look good on you," he says, handing me a dress that wouldn't reach my knee, alive with varying flowers of various colours—mostly oranges and yellows, but with a few blues and greens too. I don't think I've ever known a man to have quite an eye as he. Well, not one that would be attracted to me, anyway.

I smile, both at the dress and his prized eye. "That's cute. A little short, though."

"Everything is a little short on you. It's what you get for those long legs," he says, patting my bum and working up my spine.

It's his signature move, not in the butt patting way teammates do or coaches to gymnasts in the Olympics, merely a slight tap, gentle squeeze, and slight caress up my lower back. When he first did I worried, concerned I'd found a guy who liked to smack bottoms and hoot and whistle, but I needn't because it's cute and playful and very... well, very, Jon.

My mother loves him, by far her favourite of my boyfriends over the years. I worried about telling her he'd moved in so soon after Dante, but she took me in her arms and said, "Oh Daniella, I'm so pleased. He's a lovely boy. It's about time you had one in your life."

My mother, the woman who deflated when I chose Law over History, worried how it may affect me meeting a good man. Of course, I was dating Dante at the time, but she never considered that real, and she certainly didn't consider him to be worthy. Her traditional and stuck-in-the-past ways are beyond frustrating. I'll never be comfortable with the life she's lead, but I agree with her about finding a good man. Life is easier when you don't have to worry and try to convert the person you love.

Turning my attention back to the shoes, a new song breaks to life over the speaker—a tune by Blur I think, although I can't remember the name—the blue in my right hand and the red in my left. I twist them in my fingers with ease. It's funny how long my legs and fingers are compared to the rest of my body. I'm my parent's jigsaw puzzle: my father's legs and hands, my mother's everything else.

I can't get both pairs of shoes. I can, of course, but I shan't. I only need one, plus we're saving to go away before Christmas and I want it to be perfect. Nine months with Jon and it's passed almost without fault. I'm not certain, but I suspect he'll present me with a ring before the year's out—maybe on this trip, which is why it needs to be perfect.

Still, despite the comfort and the undoubting love we share, there seems to be something missing. When he taps my bum a surge of excitement doesn't rise and gobble up my tummy. It never has, and although the sex is good, it isn't—hmmm, what's the word, spine tingling?

Jon is the one, I'm sure about it. We're perfect for each other, but the person you spend the rest of your life with needs to excite your insides, surely. Dante isn't the one, this I'm also sure about, but when he used to frame my face in his hands or rub his thumb into the middle of my palm, a surge of unbridled energy tingled all over.

Hell, I didn't need his touch, him being there was enough, and the sex... yep, that certainly tingled my spine from time to time. I suppose that's why I tried so hard. The passion tricked me into thinking it was real love. The kind of love you spend the rest of your life nurturing. No, you can't carry on like that forever: fighting and arguing and standing on the outside looking in. I don't care how good the sex is, I'll take a man who knows how to love me any day.

That spark is important though, and I know Jon and I have it somewhere. These next few months will bring it. This trip will make us. And when he does ask me to marry him, whenever it may be, I'll say yes as quickly as he said yes to moving in with me.

"What would you like to do after this?" he asks, snapping me from my dreamy world and back to the one housing red stilettos and blue low heels and cute dresses with a garden's worth of flowers sprinkled all over.

"I don't know, shall we go for dinner?"

"Yeah, that would be nice. We could try the new Italian if you like."

"Oh, yes please. Emma says it's delicious."

"Great, we'll do that..."

"What's up," I ask, confused by his trailing off.

"Over there," he points, out towards the main road. "Is that Wilbum, or whatever his name is?"

I'm taken back to nearly a year ago, the last time I sat at the same table as Wilbur Day, the most obnoxiously vulgar man I've ever had the displeasure of meeting. I know you shouldn't base your relationships on who their friends are, but Wil's an exception and should have been an immediate sign of what lay ahead.

"Oh yes, that's him."

"What's he doing?" Jon asks.

I step towards the large room-spanning window and place both shoes on the nearest shelf. "He seems to be climbing a tree."

"Is he six years old?"

"Mentally? Yes! Literally? No. He's my age, but I assume he was dropped on his head as a baby... several times."

"What an idiot." Jon shakes his head and turns his attention back to the clothes.

"He's actually ridiculously intelligent," I say, surprising myself with my sticking up for him. "He got accepted to Oxford and Cambridge but turned them both down."

"And you're saying he's not an idiot?"

"Oh no, he is, just a truly intelligent one. In a strange way, I actually miss our arguments." Did I just say that?

"I seem to remember him saying once how he likes to do draw up high. I assumed he meant getting high, but maybe not," I continue.

"Hmmm, well he certainly looks like an idiot. And if his notoriety is anything to go by I'd say you did well ridding him of your life."

"Yeah, no arguments there," I say, still strangely missing his erratic ways. I must be hungry... or sick.

Mine and Dante's issues never revolved around Wil, but he was rarely far away. Ethan, Wil and Dante come as a collection, and although I miss Ethan very much, sharing the love of my life with an immature sociopath isn't part of the plan. Still, so long as Ethan stands by his cousin, I hold a slither of hope for Dante. The only problem is, no matter how hard the likes of Ethan and myself pull on one arm, Wil heaves on the other.

Will wasn't the cause of mine and Dante's demise, though. That was solely our own doing. Maybe if I spent more time enjoying who we were instead of trying to change him, we wouldn't be void of one another now. I suppose when you're not compatible, you're not compatible. Still, losing someone who meant so much completely from your life is hard. The linger never fully vanishes. The hate doesn't quite banish everything else.

Of course, I can't talk to Jon about this. We share most our worries and whimsey's, but I can't mention Dante without his blood boiling. Jon's the most mild mannered man there is. He doesn't raise his voice or say a word out of turn, and it's this that makes him formidable at work. He's eerie calm in a microcosm of frustrated testosterone and egotistical maniacs. He's the token calm lawyer.

But when it comes to Dante, he flinches and clenches his fist. An ex-boyfriend of three years is enough to cause unease, I suppose, but when you combine this with Dante's out-of-character punch and Jon's subsequent broken nose, well, it's enough to transform my mild mannered man of love into a passionate soldier. I know it's barbaric and untoward, but somewhat sexy nevertheless.

I twist away from the glass and gaze towards Jon, who smoothes down a crease in a dress. I remember his foul mood after his tussle with Dante, and the bruises that surrounded his bloodshot and heavy eyes. He wanted to press charges, and it was only my pleas that prevented him from doing so. I'm not sure why I protested, Dante did, after all, deserve his comeuppance. I reasoned I wanted the whole episode to be over, so we could finally move on. I don't know, maybe there was more to it than that. A lingering loyalty, perhaps...

"No doubt he'll be meeting that ex of yours," Jon mumbles.

I place my hand in the nook of his lower back, scrunching his navy cashmere jumper. "Probably. They practically live in that pub."

"Have you ever seen him, since, you know..."

"You know I haven't."

He nods, scratching his nose, although I'm not sure if he's scratching or remembering the pain—not only the physical, but having to go to work and sit in meetings looking like a failed boxer.

"That part of my life is in the past, mister. All I have now is you, okay?"

He glances at me and smiles, his light blue eyes peering through. They're not striking enough to lose yourself in, but gorgeous all the same. They might not house intrigue and mystery, but they're honest and true. They may not speak of adventure and sometime in the future, but they offer reality. With Jon I get the best of both worlds: powerful career woman and happy wife—hopefully, one day mother.

"Do you know what I think we should do when we get home?" I say.

"What's that?" The stubble peeks through his skin, a subtle shadow cast across his face. It isn't young and tender, instead aged and wise. There are no wrinkles, but creases define his features and offer a view in to the future. I like being with someone five years older than me. They've already been where I am and can guide me along the way.

"I think we should book our winter getaway. Once we decide where we're going and book it, the excitement can begin. We could do with a little excitement, don't you think?"

"Are we not already exciting?" he asks, his tone flat.

"Yeah, of course we are, but I love having a trip to look forward to. It means we can shop for sunny clothes."

He relaxes. "Yeah, that sounds nice. We'll have dinner and search the web when we get home. How does that sound?"

"Great." Already the excitement consumes me. I can't believe we haven't been away together yet. We moved in after a month, but it will be a year before we jet off on a romantic flight. It's the absolute opposite to my relationship with Dante. We never shared a house, despite me hinting and even asking, but jetted off on several adventures, the first of which after only six weeks.

I adore the airport when you're with someone you love. No matter your stress or worries, its chaotic dance is a wonderful pleasure. The Duty Free shop becomes an area of endless possibilities. Choosing your book is an important task, as it'll reside in a special place in your memory. A place not only of literary significance, but memories of sitting in the sand with the man you love.

Packing for a romantic trip is different, too. Clothes aren't clothes, they're outfits created for a particular night and kiss. Pictures are taken and memories captured. Every detail requires careful thought and perfect execution.

This is our first trip and therefore the most important, maybe not forever, but certainly for a while. The location needs to be exotic and inspiring. Cost can't take preference over experience. We need to splash out and spend silly amounts of money on a latte because its setting is that of a dream. We'll be tourists, but not a family dashing around and trying to keep peace. We'll float and swoop along the streets, dancing between bags and shoulders and smiling all the while.

"We're going for a full week, right? Not just a weekend."

"Right. Maybe ten days. I'm sure we can sort it out with work."

"Yeah, ten days is better. We could go to somewhere like Mexico or the Caribbean. Oh, oh, we could go on one of those Caribbean cruises. Island hopping and testing out beach after beach," I say, picturing the white sailing boat in full mast, my feet hanging over the side and prickling in the sharp sea air. The sun kisses my arms already, hot and striking, but cool because the boat rips through the water at speed. Leaning back, I breathe in the salty air that only the sea offers. I'm there already and it's lovely.

"Maybe... although I'm not great on boats."

"Oh," I pause, trying to rid my fantasy and replace it with another. "Maybe we could do Thailand then, or Vietnam, or Cambodia. I imagine the beaches are a dream over there, and the food, mmmmm."

I imagine kneeling down and placing chunks of rice in my mouth, the delicious aromas of curries and frying meats and steaming vegetables filling the air. I salivate at the thought, and again, I'm there.

"Yeah, I've always wanted to do Asia."

"Yeah," I tilt my head back and wrap my arms around his neck, hanging on him and beaming a smile. Dante used to say I have three levels of smile: the largest framing my entire mouth with dimples. I predict I'm smiling a level three or higher right now.

Still smiling, I let go of his neck and return to the wet world of York in September. The weather's still pleasant, but already it's turning. I don't appreciate the cold, and this time of year is arguably worse than the full throng of winter solace. At least then nothing peeks on the horizon. Now, the memory of the summer sunshine remains, and the possibility of an occasional nice day teases.

"Yes, we definitely need some sunshine to look forward to," I say, walking towards the room-length window and once again searching the outside for signs of life. Wil no longer hugs the tree, and other than the occasional passing car, we're alone. It's getting dark and people are on their way home from work. My day off is coming to a close, and soon I'll be back in the office prepping for cases and filling one form in after another.

I like this area of the city because it usually remains quiet. Dante and I used to walk here hand-in-hand. We used to walk a lot, for no other reason than to hold hands and drink in the world. Maybe Jon and I will start walking more. Maybe when we hold hands that strange spark will surge up and prickle my skin.

I don't miss Dante, but I also don't not miss him, either. There are so many frustrated memories, but I do miss the connection we shared. I miss the rush of swooning insides. Sometimes, I just miss his voice and knowing he's in my life.

But I do love Jon. I love him for who he is and must take him... all of him... or nothing at all. I can't spend my life obsessing over his faults, instead I must love him for his kindness, and his trust, and the way he pats my bum and runs his fingers up my spine. The spark will come, and this sunny trip away will bring it. I just know it will.

Such a nice day. Such a quiet and calm and easy day. A day to savour, and maybe, just maybe, a defining one that will take Jon and me to the next level. As for the shoes, hmmmm... blue or red... blue or red... blue... or... red...
17.42—Dante King

If I were to add all of the hours spent in this pub the result would possibly cause a seizure. I dread to think about the money ploughed into the old rickety till, but at least in return I receive tasty beer and refreshing liquor. What do I receive in return for my time?

The blue wooded door leads to my home away from home, and part of me loves how I have a place to call my own, but another, a section that speaks a great deal more sense, despises this. Right now the air is alive with cooking pies and hearty meals, but I've been here when no food roasts at all, during early times, far too early times, the wrong side of noon times when all that should be on my mind is coffee and toast.

Without the food this place stinks of ale. I've never understood why, but the combination of sweat and beer conjures an aroma of urine, the sort of stench that clings to the back of your throat and lingers for too many seconds. I've seen this untoward side on far too many occasions, so why I insist on coming back is beyond me.

There must be a hundred pubs in York to choose from, and in the city centre, dozens. At some point we chose this one to be our gathering point, and as time ticked by and the need to roam and rumble ceased, it became a home. Like every pub in the world it has its regulars, and we're one of them, but unlike the rest we're the only group still of an age where nightclubs and cool indie hotspots are an option. We choose here time-and-time again. We're old beyond our years. We must be insane, but part of me loves it.

If it were Ethan and I it would make sense. Ethan's an old head on a young twenty-something body, but then again, he used to be an old head on a teenage body. His birthday's come and go, but his mind can't get older—it's already as old as time.

It isn't the two of us, though. Wil forms part of this group. York isn't a particularly dynamic metropolis at the best of times, but there are many places more suited to a creative maniac like he. I can't quite remember how or why we chose here, but I'm sure it was Wil's idea. I'm also sure it's he who kept saying, "same time, same place?" during our aforementioned wild days of hitting the town four nights a week. Maybe that's why I feel older than twenty-two. Maybe the human body can only handle so many all-nighter's and we reached our total by the age of nineteen.

Part of me loves this, the other not so much. Each employee knows what we drink, and when Wil approaches with a particular glint in his eye they know to reach high for top shelf tequila, both laughing at and resenting how the night will unfold as Wil brakes glasses, screams and shouts, dances on tables, and who knows what else. They love him here and hate him even more. This is how most approach Wilbur Day.

Right now we have a few moments before Wil bursts through the door. This is when Ethan and I chat and catch up. We almost always tell Wil one particular time and decide to meet at least thirty minutes earlier. It's only a short window, but long enough to sip and appreciate a pint of ale—something Ethan particularly adores—and talk about matters Wil won't humour.

Ethan sits between me and the bar, a casual flow of bodies crossing its path as some walk to join friends and colleagues, others to gather drinks and flirt with the token tasty barmaid (there aren't many who work here, but always one at any given time), or to the far corners where the toilets reside—no matter how much food is cooking, that stench forever remains.

Ethan, my cousin, looks nothing like me. His blonde hair contrasts my dark locks, and where his is thin and wispy, mine is thick and always on the verge of insanity. I have brown eyes, and of course he has blue—although they're nothing like Wil's rich and mysterious ones. Ethan's are pale and flaky with speckles of green and white. He's smaller too, and more rounded than me. Our mother's are sisters but we both get the majority of our features from our father's. Most assume it's Wil and I who are related, but the man sat opposite me nursing his pint with precise sips is my blood.

"How's the pale ale," I ask, distinguishing pale from the other words.

"Good," he replies, fixing me with his usual stare. "How's your piss water?" Referring to my lager.

"As good as always."

He doesn't look away, not even an inch, and as he has done since we were children, he devours my thoughts. My parents have rarely been able to read me, but Ethan can and always has. Few girls have come close to understand my inner workings, but Ethan does without even asking questions. Even Danii, the only girl I think I've ever loved didn't see as deep as my cousin does. It's not that I invite him to take what he wishes, he merely does so without asking. I've always told him he should become a psychologist rather than an accountant, but he says, "yours is the only mind that interests me."

"Did you have a headache this morning?" he asks, unblinking as he sips his beer.

"A little one, yeah."

"How little is little?"

"Uncomfortable, but nothing to cry about. It was gone by the time I got to work." I take a mouthful of cool lager, the icy touch on my throat refreshing. Such an act isn't as wonderful as it was a few weeks ago as the sun beat down on the Yorkshire ground with intent, but it still houses a lovely feel. In a few more weeks I'll probably prefer a hot chocolate to warm my insides.

"Okay."

"I just hope Doc has an answer for me tomorrow. It's probably something stupid like stress, so just give me some pills and be done with it, you know."

"Hopefully," he says, finally taking his penetrating glare off of me. It used to freak me out when we were younger, but I'm used to it these days. If it was anyone else I'd be unnerved, but this is Ethan's way of caring. For looking out for me like a big brother. He's always been the brother I've never had.

"Whatever he recommends though," he continues. "Make sure you listen. Doc knows best, okay?"

"Yes dad."

"Even if it's something like meditating."

"Sure thing, dad."

"Yeah, yeah, I know, I'm the muppet because I care. What, should I be more like Wil? Let me guess, his advice will be: 'ah Dante m'lad, you shall be fine. Fine I say. Ah yes, ah yes, let's have tequila and fly to Mexico. Yes, yes, that's all you need.'"

I laugh, not because his impression is even close to accurate, but because Wil said something similar the other day.

"I appreciate you, cousin. But everything is fine, so stop worrying. Even Doc said it would be."

"Okay, okay."

The token barmaid—who on this occasion has brunette hair and lovely slim legs reaching nearly to her armpits—strides past with two plates: one housing some sort of pie, the other chicken, rice and chips. It isn't long since I ate a late lunch, but such smells always bring me to my knees.

"Anyway, how are you? What's new in the life of Ethan Knight?"

"Same old, same old. I've been working on a new process today and managed to finish it before I left. I need to go over a few things in the morning, but then it's good to go."

"They given you a pay rise yet?"

"Nope, and I haven't asked for one either."

"Well you should. You know how valuable you are to those boring set of old timers. It's a bleeding travesty your on the same wage as me. You should be on double what I am."

Placing both palms flat on the table, he slinks in towards me. "You're good at what you do."

"Yeah? So why am I working for the local paper, which, might I add, probably won't exist in a few years."

He returns to his usual upright manner. "One day you'll work for the BBC, mate."

"Yeah, I should be working for them now," I say, sulking and slumping.

"Then do something about it."

"Yeah I know, I should. It's just..."

"What?"

"I don't know. Anyway, I don't want to talk about this tonight. No work!"

"You brought it up—"

"I know, but no work, okay?"

He smiles, although Ethan's smile is barely anything at all. Wil's is large and frantic; a species of its own. For Ethan a smile is an act performed with as little energy as possible. It reminds me of Danii because she didn't do much with her mouth either, the only difference being she didn't have to. It's so wide even the slightest parting works wonders across her face. I wonder what those lips are doing right now? Kissing Jon's no doubt.

"Sure. How about girls then, or more specifically the girl you said you were going to ask out."

I slump further into my chair, shrinking back into a child. "Yeah, about that... I didn't."

"Wil's going to kill you," he says, laughing and draining the remainder of his glass. "I thought it was a sure thing."

"Says you, Mr-never-speaks-to-a-girl... EVER."

"I'm not the one trying to kid himself into forgetting."

"Oh don't start. I keep telling you. I'm over Danii!"

"Yeah, sure," he says, moving to stand up.

I click my fingers an inch from his eye. "I am, mate. I am."

Swatting my hand away, he settles back into his chair. "Oh really?" The penetrating glare is back.

"Really!"

"Bullshit. You can try and kid yourself, but you've got no chance with me."

"It's been seven months. We're over and we're never getting back together. She's with Jon, and if our last encounter is anything to go by, I don't think I'll see her for quite some time. I've moved on."

"So why didn't you ask this girl out?"

I slump even lower, if that's at all possible, because I don't know the answer. Sarah is a student who's worked at the paper all summer. I see her nearly every day, we speak during most of them, and we share smiles and flirty gazes.

She's lovely and long legged with wavy blonde locks and a cute pixie-like nose. She has freckles around her eyes that have doubled in size as summer's drawn on. Her thin and slim figure is tempting, and on hot days, where she wears thin shirts and figure hugging materials, I go weak at the knees. My body yearns for her, but it isn't pure lust. It's largely hormonal, sure, but she's smart and funny, too. I want to ask her out and have done for weeks, but for some reason I can't bring myself to do it.

In another week she'll be gone: back to university and another opportunity missed. I've had all summer to make a move, but my indecision has worked itself into a frenzy like it always does. I'm over Danii, I'm sure I am, but every time I imagine being with Sarah—sharing walks along the river, or curled up in bed on a Sunday morning with nothing but a thin sheet separating us—a part of Danii threatens to leave. I want to be ready for that, but I'm not sure I am. She was. She was ready to forget within a week of us ending.

"I don't know, but don't tell Wil."

"He'll ask—"

"So, I'll change the subject. It's not like it's hard with him."

"True, but—"

"Whatever, don't tell him."

"Fine, but why don't you tell me what's wrong. If it's not Danii, what is it?"

I take a heavy breath, the smell of cooking food not as scrumptious and tempting as before. "Maybe it is Danii, but then again, maybe it isn't. I'm not sure. Sarah's nice, and I think she likes me, but something is holding me back. It doesn't feel right, you know? And if it doesn't feel right now, what's the point?"

"That's fair. If you don't see it going anywhere—"

"No, you don't understand. It's not that I can't see it going somewhere. I just don't see this hesitation—whatever it is—disappearing anytime soon."

His stupidly slight smile returns. "That hesitation is Danii."

"Not necessarily—"

"Dante, come on," he says, standing up again and edging away from the table. "Anyway, I need another drink. Same again?"

"Sure," I say, resting my chin on my folded forearms.

He's right, of course. He's always right. It is Danii holding me back, but she shouldn't. We're over and I've accepted this, but for some reason a part of me won't conform. I want to forget, but forgetting three years is tough. It's especially tough when I know it's my own doing.

Ethan returns with two fresh glasses overflowing and dripping down the sides. The heads on each are thick and white, each bubbling and bursting on the surface.

"Wil will be here soon," he says, sitting and pushing one of glasses towards me. "Do not let him convince you to stay out."

"Maybe we should. Summer is nearly over after all."

The glare is back, only this one's reminiscent to my father's after I've done something wrong, stupid, or a combination of both.

"It's Monday, Dante. You have an appointment first thing in the morning. There's no such thing as an early night when it comes to Wil. A couple turns into many, so please, promise me you'll leave when I do."

"Hey, this is your fault. You're the one who's depressed me."

"Dante..."

"Jesus, fine. I won't stay out."

"And?"

"I promise... dad!"

"Good lad."

The throng of bodies continues to increases as the bar fills with people ready for post-work drinks. It may only be Monday but already folk are ready for a glimpse of the weekend. Of course, Ethan is right, as always. Monday night isn't designed for fun and games. Few places will offer more than a dozen dancers on the dance floor, and the majority of our hangouts are closed in preparation for the week ahead.

Of course, none of this matters, as Wil always knows somewhere worth venturing to. He's connected with the underground and secret going ons. If a band visits York, an invite lands on his lap before anybody else, and if somewhere's worth attending, Wil discovers it first. I don't go to all, and Ethan even fewer, but whenever I do I'm greeted like a member of some secret cult.

"Wow, you're friends with Wil," people say; and, "it must be amazing to hangout with such a cool guy all of the time."

These people don't know Wil. They're usually so far gone on one drug or another they probably wouldn't recognises him during the day. I've always envied Wil and his carefree ways. I often imagine what it would be like living in his shoes, but I'd hate to be adored by such a soulless group of nobodies. These people don't have friends, they simply acquire names. They shake hands and bump fists and say cool words to one another, but what does it all mean?

"Here's the man of the hour," Ethan says, pointing towards the door.

The door's practically off of its hinges as he bursts through the opening and takes off his tweed jacket and blue neckerchief; scrunching it up in his pocket and bouncing on his feet as each step brings him closer to our table.

"Goodness gracious, good chaps of mine. How are you both—and it's fine to see you oh yes it is. Right, who's drinking what—oh, you both have fresh drinks, I see. Can I take it you've been here a while without poor old Mr Day? Why, some would be offended, but I know how you blood brothers enjoy time alone. Up to mischief no doubt." His neck is an entity of its own, swaying like a python going in for the kill.

His cheeky grin is large and crazed, eyes darting between Ethan and me, me and then Ethan. His hands are on the table but then back in his pockets, and then he places his jacket over a chair before changing his mind and folding it neatly on the seat next to me. Wil is a constant dancer, although he doesn't require music. The act of life is enough to keep him jigging and jagging all night long.

"Okay m'boys, before I get a drink, let me tell you about a quaint shindig occurring tonight."

"Absolutely not," says Ethan, without so much raising his chin.

"Hear me out, Ethan m'boy. This is a grand old show with a band from London that are working quite the storm. The gig itself is a splendid idea, but the secret gathering afterwards." He rams his right palm flat on the table, his self made earthquake shaking the glassware into new positions. "My oh my it's going to be a gay old time. There won't be many ladies worth speaking to tonight, but the ones that are... WOW."

"Nope," Ethan says.

"Hmmm, I see, okay, okay. Dante?" he twists, seducing me with those lagoon like eyes.

"Well, it sounds good," I say, because it does sound good, in fact it sounds so good I want to go and should go and must go, but, know deep down, will not go. "But I have a doctor's appointment first thing in the morning." Plus, I did promise Ethan.

"Of course, of course. The headaches. How are they?"

"They're fine. I'll find out more in the morning. Probably nothing."

"Sure, sure, nothing at all, this I'm sure. Well, maybe the two of you can accompany me to the gig, and then, you may leave."

"No means no, Wil," Ethan says, glaring at him now.

Wil smiles at this. I'm confident I'll be in bed early tonight, but more so that Wil won't quit his prodding and probing for some time yet.

"Well, chaps, I shall get a drink. Are you both okay for a refill?"

I nod, as does Ethan. Spinning and practically twirling, Wil slinks his way to the bar and is on his tiptoes, devouring the fridges below bar-level, despite knowing what's in each of them. I turn my attention towards Ethan and laugh.

"He's a son of a bitch," he says.

"He won't stop trying."

"I know."

"It sounds like fun."

"Dante."

"I know, I know."

He shakes his head and mumbles under his breath. I often wonder why we're friends with Wil, but can't imagine a day without him. I sense Ethan questions this more, but I know deep down he wouldn't change our lovely little clique.

We all play our part, and without Wil they'd be a gaping wide gap neither of us would come close to filling.
23.32—Wilbur Day

To be out and about partaking in unruly ways on a Monday night demonstrates true freedom. Dante and Ethan should be with me, living an existence built on pure spontaneity and excitement, for we're only given one life, and to be in bed by midnight is a crying shame. A damn crying shame and an insult to whatever miracle or deity or happens-chance created this crazy existence we're part of.

Ethan is impossible and will have placed that humdrum haircut on his clean and crisp pillow the moment he entered the boring house he dares call home—well, as soon as he organised his morning's life of course. He couldn't possibly drift off knowing his old white shirt isn't ironed or cheap tedious shoes aren't polished.

Dante is my kindred partner in crime, though. Why isn't he out playing? He should be feeding habits and desire with me at this very bar, throwing caution to the wind and saying the hell to his pitiful excuse of a job—the local paper, why oh why would he settle for such everyday nonsense. He should be living with me and writing the novel every young man needs to read, whilst I invent reason and splatter paint on canvas, or sculpt clay around a face, or merely sit in front of a wall and imagine the possibilities such a space could hold—oh, speaking of which, I should find Harriet and finally convince her to sit naked and allow me to devour her in paint. Such a mysterious underneath. A work of art, I'm sure.

I'm alone but I shouldn't be, yet it's their loss because this is how Monday nights should be spent. Ethan says this bar is dire, and quite right, too. It's awful, but so awfully perfect I wouldn't wish to be any place else. It's dusty walls tell a tale of another time, a period when maybe my mother or father possibly ventured through these doors, although highly unlikely as those two wouldn't be caught dead in such a wonderful mess.

I may stick to the floor each time I move, but what's wrong with that? Is a grand chunk of beef worthless because it's left hanging on a hook for weeks on end, or what about lamb as it soaks in a gorgeous marinade, or the mighty whiskey as it ages in a barrel once used for wine. Not everything needs cleaning, Ethan. Some aspects of life are perfect as they age, and although this dire excuse of a bar may be far from perfect, it's far better than your bed before dawn.

The smell on the other hand could do with improvement. The smoking ban is several years old so why the linger of cancer remains I do not know. The hint of urine too, although it may be stale beer. Either way, the scent is far from lovely, but on a quiet night like this sweat doesn't singe the nostrils. Silver linings in everything, you see. Ah yes, the silver lining follows us everywhere.

I'm surrounded by the young for they have no reason to wake early. There jobs don't matter and their classes are missable. What isn't is this and the scenes created at this very moment. Arnold is an inspiring DJ and people in the know hate missing his sets. 'Hey Arnold,' they shout. 'Introduce me to tomorrow.'

These are the songs you've yet to hear, and it's this why the same group surround me. I know everyone, although in truth I know nothing about anyone in this dark and dingy room. For instance, I know Danny loves his camera like man loves food, but I couldn't tell you his last name or what his favourite memory is.

Laura is a supreme clothes designer, but if someone was to ask me where she lives or what she studies, I'd stutter and stammer into silence. Sally, too, a girl I know somewhat intimately. She adores music more than anyone I know, but I couldn't tell you why, and without why what do we possibly understand. To ask why is to enter the soul, and as such, these people are soulless.

Ethan condemns this crowd pretentious hipsters, and Dante nods in agreement. I see their point, of course. I'm surrounded by pretentious souls but at least they're here living. I'd rather be living alongside fake minds than dying in bed. Oh how I wish my brethren were drinking with me.

I take a sip of whiskey and lean on the wet bar, my arm soaked through in an instant from spilled barman clumsiness, as the sharp spike of liquor kisses my throat and massages all the way down to my flaming gut.

Scanning the room I see nobody new, except... who is this? A girl of mystery stood beside Andrea. Petite and compact, but slim all the same with curves in the right place. Her short blonde hair stops at her neck and presented in a bright red bow that stands out in this dark and hazy room—the greens and blues of the old lights above flashing and bringing light as fast as it takes it away.

Knee high socks hide much, but the short skirt offers naked thigh and toned outlines. She's young, maybe seventeen or eighteen, but this is fine. I wonder who she is: a cousin maybe, or a faraway friend. Possibly a new addition to this crowd of misfits, or a girlfriend to one of the hipster boys who chat to me but never break my wandering eye.

Enough thinking and contemplating for I'm not Dante who edges on the line of caution, or Ethan who stands firmly behind it. I don't think, I do. It's time to do what needs to be done and discover this blonde angel in black clothing.

Pushing off the bar, I'm past one body and then another, soon crossing the dance floor as carpet turns to wood before returning to carpet once more. The mystery girl doesn't see me, but Andrea does—an unwelcoming scowl, of course. I wouldn't expect anything else.

"Andrea, darling. How are you my good girl?"

She squints and thrusts her hands on her hips. "Wil! I'm fine thank you. How are you?"

"Quite lovely, indeed quite lovely. Alone tonight, but never alone in a place like this. Always friendly faces to speak to, like your own, of course."

The irony isn't lost on her as an ever so slight smile creeps open before returning to the dark depths of her petty being. "Oh yes, always a smiling face to greet... you."

"Indeed, indeed," I say, standing to the side of my mysterious prize, eyeing her in the periphery but nothing more. Not yet. "And who is this friend of yours?" I ask, directing my pupils off centre for a brief second. "You are going to introduce us, aren't you?"

Her squint tightens. "Of course. Wil, this is my cousin, Kate. Kate, this is Wilbur Day. I've told you about Wil before, haven't I?" she says, widening her brown eyes. I can't see the brown in this light, but I know their colour all too well.

"Oh, this is Wil, is it?" Kate says, her voice quaint with a southern accent. Not strong, rather subtle like the tones of suburban London.

"I see Andrea has spoken of me," I say, facing Kate. "All good I hope."

"Well... interesting."

"Of course, of course. Andrea and I have an interesting friendship indeed."

With sudden force, I'm twirled around as Andrea grabs my arm and guides me a few steps to the left. "This is my seventeen-year-old cousin who's visiting because York University is on her final shortlist. I would like for her to come, so the last thing I need is you and your ways scaring her off. I will kill you, Wil. You do understand this, yes?"

Oh Andrea, so passionate I nearly forgive you for your own unforgiving ways. I understand how girls grow tired of me, especially after they wear out their welcome, but how can they hold it against me when it's their own weakness that invites me in to begin with? I force nothing on nobody, simply speak and chat and share stories galore. Is it my fault they swoon and desire more. Shall I feel guilty when they're left broken, even though it's they who wished to break me? Girls, silly little girls who place themselves in such high regard. The gatekeepers, apparently, who decide who can and can't speak to them. Don't be angry because I refuse to accept this, because I'm not like Dante, because I'm not like most men who hang on your every word like abandoned puppies.

"Why Andrea," I beam. "Consider me a 'Welcome Sign' to this fine city of ours. Do not fret for I have this covered."

"I don't need you to cover anything. We're having a good time without you."

"Ah, but it will be a better one with me."

"No. No it won't."

I beam at the irritation flowing from her. So passionate and lovely, and those firm legs of hers... Yes, I did enjoy our rumble together, and to an extent she wore me down and defeated my will power with those plump lips and her bulging chest. It's her mind that places her above most however, a strong presence that doesn't care for the opinion of others. I respect this, and I respect and like you, Andrea, but right now you stand in the way of fun and I.

"Hi," says Kate, stepping into mine and Andrea's tense bubble. "It's okay, Rae, I think I have this covered. Get a drink and speak to that guy you mentioned earlier."

Andrea's jaw drops, before tensing again.

"Guy?" I ask, eager intrigue swimming around my playful fingertips. "Which guy would this be?"

"Never you mind," she says, twisting on the spot and leaving in a huff.

Alone at last with Kate, her tiny form only reaching as high as my chest, although this isn't uncommon as I'm taller than the average English chap. "Kate, Kate, my lovely Kate. How delightful it is to meet you," I say, offering my hand and eyeing her from toe-to-tip: black brogues with white trim, knee high black socks, a tight black clinging skirt, and a thin black shirt with a white stripe running vertically upward over the buttons; the thin material almost see-through and exposing a dark frilly bra—blue maybe.

Taking my hand, she squeezes slightly, her soft fingers delightful on my skin. "Nice to meet you too, Wilbur. It better you know I've been warned off of you, though. Bad news is what I hear."

"Good grief, me?" I say, holding both palms to my chest. "I can't imagine why, although if it's Andrea who told you—or as you call her, Rae—well, I suppose I understand. We have, what you may call, history. Deep, distant history, mind you."

"You slept with her, didn't call, and spent the next weekend chasing her best friend. Is that the history you mean?"

I look upward and think, considering the turn of events step-by-step. "Yes, I believe that's about right. A long time ago, of course. Several months—approaching a year I think."

She smiles, her crisp white teeth showing themselves for the first time.

"You see, Kate, life is complex. It was actually your cousin who seduced me. I don't regret my weakness because she's a lovely girl, but I should have been stronger. Even I can be lead astray from time-to-time."

"Yeah right."

"Tis true."

"Okay, so you're telling me it was Andrea who seduced you. Not you and those blue eyes of yours."

"That is indeed what I'm saying, and thank you for noticing my peepers. A lovely compliment from a lovely set of lips."

She blushes like only a seventeen-year-old can.

"Anyway, Andrea says you're thinking of moving to this fine city of ours. May I ask where from?"

"Oh, I'm from a small village in Surrey, but I know York well. My family and me come most summers."

"I see, I see, how fantastic. I take it you wish to go to the University?"

"Yeah, I'm thinking about it. I'm looking at a few of the English Courses."

"Excellent, lovely, yes, yes, some fine courses in York. A great city to indulge the creative juices, too. I find myself victim most days to one muse or another."

"Oh? What do you do?" she asks, tilting her chin upward and locking her gaze on mine. Her right hand plays with a few loose strands of hair, and her left rubs her waist. She's fidgety and the lovely Kate isn't quite so lovely anymore.

"I suppose I'm an artist, although I dabble in a few of the arts: painting, sketching, sculpting and the like. I go where the inspiration directs me, you understand."

"Cool. That must be fun."

She's swooning and seemingly drowning in my gaze, unblinking and lost. I hadn't noticed until now, but her eyes are bland and lifeless. They're coated in a black mess that suggest they're intriguing, but when delving further—to the pupil and the white surrounding it—there's little to devour.

The white is creamy and messy, the centre a light brown offering little impact. Her skin too is poor, blotchy and bumpy and smothered in a powdery coat of something probably costing ridiculous amounts of money and which fits effortlessly in your pocket.

From afar this girl is a dream: petite and succulent and packaged together wonderfully, but as the intrigue fades it's replaced with lacklustre features that are the true window in to who she is. Andrea is annoying and immature, but at least she's honest. Her makeup is minimal and her beauty, real. Her words are her own, and opinion strong and firm. When I told Ethan and Dante about our time together they were surprised, surprised at how I committed to a full night with a single lady.

It needn't be shocking though, the reason is simple: when the crossroads came, she offered reality, not fantasy. It didn't last, of course, for as soon as morning broke she spoke with palm over mouth—blocking the apparently embarrassing stench—and her tone of voice was higher than usual. We never battle a single crossroads. It takes more than the first hurdle to overcome, and most people fall far too early. Still, Andrea made it farther than many.

"Yes, quite fun. I spend my days free, which is all we can ask for, yes?"

She smiles, her gleaming teeth once more on show. It's a nice smile, but far from spectacular. Andrea's lips are plump, but her cousins are slight and slim. I dread to think what kissing them would feel like. I may feel nothing at all.

"So, tell me more about your art. Are you working on anything at the moment?"

"In a way, yes. In a way. I have a show in a few weeks so perfecting some pieces, although I'm not sure this is possible? The perfection of today is often unworthy tomorrow. Whenever I look back on my work I cringe at how I was once happy with it. It's the best part of selling my work; knowing I'll never see it again."

"Really?"

"Oh yes, certainly. It leaves as perfection, and so long as I don't see it again, it remains this way. It's a memory and nothing more, but if I see it, well... like I say, I cringe and want to dispose of it. We're all frauds, you see, chasing a dangling carrot that doesn't exist. I suppose it's the chase that makes it worthwhile."

Her pupils dance a tad, performing a tango around the room. Oh the once lovely Kate, how unlovely you actually are.

"And your writing? What would you like to do with it?"

"Oh, I don't know," she says, tilting her head once more and molesting me with desperation. "I quite like the thought of journalism, or maybe teaching one day."

Oh dear, another creative mind at the mercy of this rationale world. To teach instead of do. To interview others rather than have them ask you the questions. Seventeen and already giving up. At least Dante still pretends he'll one day thrust his imprisoned life to one side, even though I doubt he truly believes this.

"Marvellous! Well, Kate my good girl, I'm going to freshen up and gather another drink, but don't you move an inch for I'll be back in a moment." I smile at her, and she reciprocates, but I won't return. How can I?

The room has filled during my conversation with the less than mysterious girl. I pull out my phone and light the screen: 11:47. Another day coming to an end, but the night is still young. There may be no intriguing girl to devour, and I may have to leave this place, but there are other delights to be had on a fine Monday like this one.

Passing shoulders and wayward backpacks and men in skinny jeans and girls in flowery tops, I work my way over to the bathroom and immediately miss the smell of sweat, old smoke, and stale beer. The stench of urine is now most certainly that, the male bathroom complete and utter squaller.

I lean on the wall and thrust the thought of what disease it may hold to one side, clicking away at the keys on my phone, eager to share my activities with the only person I know will read, and possibly, if I'm lucky, shall reply.

Dante, you are missing a fine and dandy night, my friend. I've met a girl from Surrey, a slight and precious seventeen-year-old who's quite unappealing. Her first impression tricked me my good man. Why oh why is the world so dishonest?

Pressing send, I push the phone in my chino's pocket and search the old mirror with cracks around its edges and staines sporadically smeared across. The hair around my ears is too long, overlapping them a touch and blurring the line between side and on-top. A trip to see Stephen me thinks. Yes, he shall tame this wild beast.

My chin too is in need of a shave, although I won't need Stephen for this. A quick lather of foam and whisk with a razor is more than enough, and tomorrow I shall because I can't allow stubble to overbear the three distinct lines I allow to exist: two above my upper lip, one vertically running down my chin.

My phone beeps and a strong vibration tickles my thigh.

Let me guess, you're hiding in the bathroom. Why oh why can't YOU be normal?

I chuckle and straighten my back, tapping away at the keys once more. Delighted he's still awake.

Normal is for the crazy, my friend. And trust me when I say how mediocre she is. Fine to look at, sure, but a weak mind that swooned within minutes. Without a challenge what is the point?

Now I know he's awake I place the phone on the sink and continue searching the mirror. The top of my head is cut off as it's too low for my tall and lanky figure. Oh well, I know it's there and is alive with bushy and bouncy locks curling in and around each other. Like the wind, I don't need to see it in order to understand its presence.

I suppose it is odd in a way, how I'm out on my own on a Monday night. I'm not drunk, barely intoxicated at all, and I've only spoken to a handful of people since leaving my two boys. Being alone in a bathroom is strange, too, although I wouldn't say I hide, merely await my next move.

To be at home in bed is strange, also. It's normal, to be in bed by midnight on a Monday, but why? Who decided this is the done way? Why should we abide to such arbitrary rules when life is all around us and at all hours of the day? Yes, I'm glad I'm not normal.

The sink vibrates, the phone nearly bumping its way off the edge.

When will you accept you're a charming 'son of a gun' that most women swoon over. Don't worry, once they get to know you they realise how terrible you are. Until then, you may as well have some fun.

I laugh again, my boy Dante loving me for who I am. He's right, most do grow to hate me, but not he. I've known him for forever, and for some unsolved mystery he stands by my side through the good and through the bad. Oh Dante, m'lad, you are the grandest person I know.
23.53—Dante King

It's dark and peaceful, the firm mattress supporting my shoulders and aching back, the soft and fluffy pillow sinking inward and surrounding my ears. I lay like this, ready and willing sleep, but my eyes are wide and my mind thrives, the black room providing little help as I focus on the distractions and procrastinations: the red dot of the television, nestled neatly and almost perfectly levitating half way up the wall; the sliver of moonlight creeping through the gap in the blinds that don't quite sit flush with the wall; the ambient glow of my MP3 player, sat beneath the bed but still toying with my periphery.

I don't always lay in bed and listen to music, but in recent weeks I've returned to it in a bid to soothe the headaches. As soon as Danii and I broke up I stopped, only doing it in the first place because of her. "I can't sleep without music," she'd say. "Plus, it gives us reason to create a playlist together."

I haven't created a playlist this time, and I deleted the one shared with her months ago. I merely shuffle the player and keep the volume low; each new song a surprise, although I suppose this exciting anticipation defeats the purpose. Maybe I'll create a playlist tomorrow after my appointment with Doc. It'll kill some time before heading back to work.

I don't think I'm nervous about tomorrow, but maybe I am because I'm nowhere near sleep. A slight sneak of a headache rests in the back of my skull, above the neck and in the firm squishy part of tendon or ligament or whatever else resides back there. It isn't painful like the morning doses are, but it's annoying nonetheless, and when I roll my fist and squeeze it beneath spine and pillow, relief melts around me for a pleasant few seconds. Of course, it doesn't last.

I shouldn't be worried because Doc assures me all is okay. Stress or a trapped nerve or the lingering aftereffects of a broken heart... whatever it is I hope he prescribes some pills so this frustrating period can come to an end.

Then again, maybe I'm still awake because Wil's texted me several times in the last few minutes, and though I'll never admit I enjoy these late night commentaries, in a way I do. I can't be out with him now, but I do miss our midweek shenanigans. I suppose we all get older and grow up—well, except for Wil. I'm not sure he'll ever conform to a standard job, and why should he? If anybody's above such a lifestyle it's him. His days are destined for whimsy and excitement and spontaneous whatevers. It's an existence I dream of, but I doubt I'm cut out for it. I think few are.

As Gravity by Embrace builds to life, a firm vibrating shake startles my right ear, a sharp glow appearing from nowhere and tempting me to reach for it and continue this procrastinating resistance towards rest.

How am I supposed to have fun when my bestest of all friends is laying in bed—awake might I add, which defeats your excuse for not being here—and partaking in a life of hum-drum nonsense. You should be here, Dante m'lad, for if you were we could cause mischief all night long and maybe, just maybe, find a girl who doesn't disgust my insides—although I seriously doubt it.

I throw the phone on the pillow to my left and smile. It's true, being awake voids my excuses from earlier. I could be out with him, and possibly should be, but Ethan would kill me and judge me with that penetrating glare. I'm not sure I'm ready to begin a week with a gigantic guilt trip looming over me. He speaks sense, of course, but sometimes he speaks too much sense—the kind of sense only an old man should utter.

Rolling to my side, I pick up the phone and awkwardly tap the keys:

You're right mate, I should be asleep, so how about you leave me alone and enjoy your night avoiding women—what's the point of you being out again? If I were you I'd put that charm to good use for once, rather than showcase how insane you are. Goodnight!

Pressing send, I roll back into a straight position, no doubt resembling a rigid vampire in a coffin. If I want to be comfortable surely I should sprawl across the double bed with limbs in and out of covers and pillows tossed around with care free abundance. But if I do it's all too apparent I'm alone in here, which represents how lonely I am. With a straight back and taking up only a sliver of this large bed, I can practically kid myself into thinking I'm not on my own: that maybe she's back with me, or at least that I've moved on and don't need her, merely somebody new... someone different... anyone...

She's with someone new and sharing her bed with him, no, not her bed, their bed, although it's the same bed as we once shared... I think. No, I can't do this. I shan't do it. Not tonight!

Rolling over to my right this time, I stare at the cream door leading out to the larger, but just as empty apartment. I'm too awake and alive and buzzing with energy, although not the excitable energy which desires to get things done—not like when I used to write something of worth and would be touched by an idea at midnight, willing me to wake and turn on a light and scribble words on paper—no, this is a tainted energy of worry and stress and wayward thoughts that bring nothing of worth. I'll eventually drift asleep, but when it comes to waking early in the morning I'll struggle to keep my eyes open and be useless throughout the day. By dinnertime I'll yearn for a nap, but as soon as nine o'clock ticks round I'll be more awake than ever, and this traumatic cycle will continue to roll and roll and roll. I'm stuck in a rut but don't know why. A few months ago it made sense because it was still fresh, but why now. Why, after seven months, has this resurrection of midnight pondering returned?

The vibration returns, although this time it's muffled and drowned-out by the pillow. I twist and pick it up, the harsh light straining and blurring my vision.

The point of being out is to live, Dante m'lad. We only get one life and I aim to make the most of it at all times. Monday... Wednesday... Sunday, it need not matter to me and need not matter to you. Why, tomorrow that doctor of yours will say how stress and that evil temptress is eating you alive, and guess what thrusts stress and devilish women aside? Why, fun and spontaneity, of course. You know it makes sense, m'lad. You know it does!

I sigh, considering what my reply should be, but the room descends into silence before twinkling back to life with an ever so gentle tickle of keys. My heart aches in an instant and the pain in the back of my head throbs. The Scientist, often the final song before sleep would take us. Coldplay, one of our first concerts together, and this song, the song we fell silent to for its entirety, merely embracing one another and locking fingers; a private and unspeakable moment shared with a thousand strangers.

Not early enough in the playlist to be fully awake, but not far enough for deep sleep to take hold. I loved this song before Danii, but I'm unable to listen to it now because of her. Too many times I hung helplessly between the conscious and unconscious world, awake but not as the words mingled with my dreams, memories of the video interweaving with my own psyche and placing me in it, or inspiring new dreams, new fantasies, new possibilities.

Only a few minutes long but in this state a few minutes feels like hours. Cuddled up to Danii—she too asleep, usually deeper and more peaceful than me, always drifting off before I—time turned this song in to something far greater. It became an embodiment of her, of us, of a time I was happy and allowed it to happen. In the fragile state of awake but not, I didn't fear commitment or the man I could become, I simply allowed what was happening to happen.

Danni and I were perfect in this form, and I'm paralysed because I know the time has passed. This is once again a song: nothing more. It's no longer a song I love because I can't stand to hear it, but right now I'm unable to move and why oh why didn't I create that playlist.

The darkness closes all around me and I'm suffocated by the still air. It's heavy, much heavier than air should be. My breath is quickening, faster and faster; my chest rising, farther and farther; my blood pulsing, heavier and heavier; the headache devouring, bulging and bulging.

It's seven months since I've seen her and I shouldn't feel like this. She's moved on and with Jon. Hell, she moved on practically the day we ended, but here I am alone in the dark and terrified like a small child, clinging to the sheets in the hope they'll protect me from monsters and ghouls and axe wielding maniacs.

She's moved on, but I wonder if she thinks of me at certain points in her day: a song maybe, or a film or particular aroma. Right now I practically smell her, her hair and the wavering hint of honey and coconut. It's impossible I know, but I swear it's here, as though someone has snook into my room and is watching over me: a ghost of the past... a regret from a time too long ago.

If I roll over I'll taste her neck, the sweet hint of honey on my lips that grows stronger and stronger the higher up I work, until I caress her ear and nibble the tip. She used to love that. I wonder if she still does. I wonder if he does it, and if so, is it the same? Is it as wonderful? Does it mean as much to her as it did to me, or was it a simple act of lust and passion now treated by another.

I wonder if she thinks of me, and if she does, is it only of the pain? the pain of that unfortunate day with Jon? the pain of three years with me?

The song builds towards its finale, the stage where Danii's fingers tightened around mine during the concert from another time... another life altogether. I didn't look at her, but I sensed her eyes glistened in each corner, because I certainly felt the coming of tears, not so much for the song, rather the moment. Surrounded by thousands but nobody at all. It was a time before the problems and arguments and stubborn battles of wills between us began. It was before my fear took over and prior to her insistence of more.

The final notes come and go and the room's silent once again, although not for long as the mysterious next song lays patiently in wait. It doesn't matter what it is because no other song has meaning.

I can't stand this darkness and claustrophobic air any longer. Rolling clumsily and quickly, I'm out of bed and stumbling towards the door where the light switch rests. I flick it on, the sudden illumination blurring everything. I lean on the wall in fear I may black out, the lights too bright and immediate. I see nothing but a bight blur, yet bit-by-bit it clears into the familiar room I know. Speckles of white and streaks of hazy lines fill my view, but the bed I restlessly occupied is there, as is my desk and wardrobe and chair piled high with jackets and jumpers.

Below the bed is the MP3 player, and dashing towards it I switch it off. The hum from the lights take over, as does my heavy breathing and the creaks of the windows as one burst of wind is followed by another. I've never felt this alone before, and how pathetic I am for all this is because of a song I once listened to on repeat with glee. All of this because of a girl I haven't seen for seven months, and who left only because I pushed her away. All of this because I'm weak and in control of nothing, soon to be in Doc's office as he prescribes pills due to stress and worry and anxiety. What man am I? No, I'm not a man, I'm a shaken boy who heard a noise outside and hides beneath the sheets until mummy or daddy hushes and nurses him.

The phone vibrates, the muffled sound barely making the journey from the bed. I glance at the clock on the opposite wall, above a shelf of books, most of which recommended by Danni, many gifts from previous birthdays and Christmases: no matter the occasion a book always involved. Four minutes after midnight, a new day, nearly the middle of the night, but I'm awake with the light on awaiting my heavy breathing to subside.

The brightness isn't debilitating any more. I straighten out and rock on my feet, twitching my digits and searching the room for something... anything. The desk, and within it a bundle of notebooks that once held hope and aspiration and a world of what might be. Striding over I open the draw and pick the first one up, fanning the pages until one stays open at random, walking back towards the bed and dropping it on the crumpled sheets.

The phone vibrates again, maybe a new message from Wil or a reminder of the one from earlier. Sitting on the bed, I reach for it and take in the words:

I've met a girl you would love, Dante m'lad. She has long legs and lovely hair that kinks and curls. Her eyes are dark like moonshine and cheeks freckled with light brown dots. She's cute, adorable, ideal for a man like yourself. I'm arranging a drink between the two of you, and no, you cannot refuse. Her name is Sophie and she smells of lemon.

I scan the words but don't have time for him right now. On any other occasion I'd send a pleading text to stay out of my love life—burnt by Wil's match making skills on more than one occasion—but all I need now are my own words from a time when hope ruled.

I rub my fingertips over the page, light blue lines horizontally crossing from left-to-right, scratchy and clumsy words filling the space between them, my horrible handwriting that's only gotten worse since my so called journalism has taken hold. These days I pen-scratch interviews with people I don't care about, glossing over meaning in order to record facts and figures I'm positive nobody cares for. Why would they when I don't care myself.

These words seem ancient. I barely remember writing them. Was this notepad prior to university? during? It certainly wasn't after because I can't remember writing a single word of fiction since. I used to live in this world but for whatever reason left it behind. University showed me a glimpse of interviews and meaningful journalism, but that didn't include local fluff pieces about councillors and bakers and school children who happened to grow a large vegetable or some other pointless tale. I write more now than ever, but my handwriting is worse because no passion remains. These pages hold nothing but love and need. Yet they remain in draws to gather dust, not a single set of eyes caring to read them or scatter them with red ink.

I'm not reading the sentences and I'm certain I've opened this notepad halfway through a short story I created during the summer I first met Danii. It was awful, if memory is correct, but it's real and from the heart and crafted of meaning that no other person on this planet could provide. This whole book is full of individuality, and that draw, that small draw hidden under that small desk, is jammed with unique stories, and although most, quite possibly all, are useless and would never amount to anything worth reading, at least they're real; a great deal worthier than interviewing a council woman so dry and tedious she makes Ethan seem adventurous.

I snap the old notebook shut and bring it to my nose, heaving a breath and smelling the aged pages. Danii used to smell every book she bought. We'd visit secondhand bookstores to fulfil her fix, the entire air brimming with leather and oak and damp paper. A grand smile would protrude every sniff, spinning the book in her fingertips and deciding whether it had a place on her bookshelf.

Edging up off of the bed, I walk back to the desk and place the book on top of the other notepads full of messy ideas and incomplete tales. I miss Danii, but maybe it isn't she who keeps me awake, and maybe the headaches aren't down to stress, rather knowing a lost life hides in a draw a few feet from where I rest.

My breathing is calm again and my shoulders not as tense. I'm wide awake. A hint of a headache remains, and, on grabbing the back of my neck and squeezing hard, a relaxing surge rinses my insides clean and my shoulders sink a little more.

Walking back towards the door, I switch off the light and am lost in the darkness. It's darker than before and I see nothing, not even the hand resting a few inches from my nose. Soon I'll adjust and see the red dot from the television, and the sliver of light sneaking through the blinds. The MP3 player remains dormant as I need silence now, not music. I'm not tired, but soon will be. First, for a few minutes, I'll stand by the door and allow darkness to consume me. It's everywhere and rich and full and pure. It isn't heavy or drowning like before, and the claustrophobic panic is thankfully no more.

Danii sleeps, no doubt, and more than likely in peace. Then again, maybe she dreams about me, or a time we shared together. Maybe she panics when The Scientist plays over the radio, and maybe certain sights and sounds and smells remind her of me.

And maybe, sometimes, she looks at Jon and wishes he had a different face, another smell, a familiar mind. I need to let go and I need to return to writing. Those notebooks should sit proudly around the apartment, and the pile needs to grow and my muse requires room to stretch its legs and take meaning in my life.

But before this I need sleep. In a few hours I'll sit in Doc's office and he'll tell me what's wrong and give me a solution to the problem. I can start afresh and let go of what once was. I can return to a love and replace tedium with passion, and I can dream and fantasise like I used to, only this time I'll do. I'll be like Wil, only not as insane. I'll be as strong as Ethan, only brave enough to wander off course.

I'll leave this one day in September behind and make a note of the sixteenth, for it's a day that changes everything. And change is exactly what I need.

THE END - FOR NOW

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My name is Matthew Turner, and I'm the author of this book. Before I say anything else, let me Thank You for reading.

Whatever your thoughts, please Leave an Honest Review on the site you bought this book from. I value reviews more than you know, even the one-star wonders. In a world of many authors and even more books, reviews are a writer's best friend.

You can learn more about my books at Turndog.co/Books, as well as my life in general. Of course, I urge you to follow my journey, because it isn't mine at all. It's ours. For you see, a great story is rarely about a single person. It's about the people around that character, it's the journey they go through together, and it's the impact they have on the world around them. You can learn more about my journey at the bottom of this page, and if you decide to come along for the ride, please reach out and introduce yourself.

With that, I must bid farewell and leave you to your day. You may have finished my book, but I hope you jump straight into another, for there are few better things in life than curling up with a good book (even bad books offer good times). My name is Matthew Turner, and I'm a Writer, Reader, Storyteller, and Coffee Loving Fiend.

You've just read One Day in September, and that makes you a rather awesome individual. It's now time to read Tick to the Tock and see what happens to Dante and co...

Let's speak soon,

Matthew Turner

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WHAT HAPPENS NEXT?

You've read One Day in September, so now it's time to introduce you to what happens next.

One Day in September is set the day before TICK to the TOCK, and I'm excited to share the First Chapter with you now. And, if you'd like to read the full book, you can do so here >> smarturl.it/ticktock

16th September—York:

To never reach the age of twenty-three is unjust, but this is the fate I face. I awoke this morning with my life ahead of me, but now, as I sit on this cold, damp, wooden bench, my demise clings to the horizon. I'm a dying man, a man with a ticking clock. We all are, of course, but most don't consider it or foresee it or give it a second thought. A few hours ago, I was one of these free-spirited minds, but life has a way of changing course in a rather quick and frank fashion.

My day began like any other, the alarm breaking into sound at the same time as it did yesterday; my tired eyes creeping open, slowly, cautiously, like any would at such an ungodly hour. The only difference to this day was rather than heading to work, I would go first to the doctor, but as I would catch the same bus, at the same time, and head in the same direction, little differed.

Tired, I stumbled through my morning routine, my restless night not mixing well with the early hour. Still, a certain excitement ran inside me, for late last night I experienced an epiphany of sorts, an encouragement to write, a need to return to a craft I once held so dear. I'd go to my appointment, pick up whatever medication was prescribed to me, and leave my frustrations behind; return to the page and conjure meaningful pose once more.

The crisp morning air filled my lungs as soon as I stepped outside, a lovely September morning that only Yorkshire can muster. Walking in such weather is a commuter's delight, the crackle of leaves erupting beneath your feet. In a few weeks, the trees will be bare and the ground a soggy, rotting mess, but for now, all is well. For one final encore, summer has a say.

Energised from the refreshing stroll, I approached the doctor's office in a somewhat buoyant mood. I awoke with a headache, as I have most mornings recently, but Doc assured me all was fine, even though he was taking a rather careful route. He's always been the cautious type, but he's a guy to trust. If he says all is well, all is well.

"Oh, Mr King, head straight in," said the receptionist, as soon as I walked through the door. Mrs Robinson played over the old waiting room speakers, a song I love. I don't think I'll ever be able to listen to it again.

I've known Doc my entire life; in fact, it was he who gave me my first injection, first inspection, and first prescription. His smile is always the first thing I notice when seeing him. The wrinkles have deepened and skin sagged, and his silver hair gets sharper each time I visit, but that smile is unwavering... until this morning.

The sullen expression aged him: lifeless and drained, as though some parasite had emptied him. I clutched my chest as it beat strong and fast, edging myself down in the old cushioned chair; worried to say anything for fear of what words might bring.

"I'm afraid it isn't good news," he said, his head low, immersed in a pile of papers. As he raised his chin, I realised how vacant he was. His eyes needed that smile, for without it, he had no comfort; a stranger rather than a man I've known for twenty-two years. "The results are back. I've triple checked them, but... but... it doesn't look good," he said. "I've spoken to several people, and..." he sighed. "It doesn't look good."

The silence between us took on a haunting form. I said nothing. I couldn't say anything, all I could do was sit, my hands pushed tight under my thighs as I awaited his next words, which, as in all moments of worry, took a lifetime to arrive; trudging towards me in slow motion.

"Dante, we've found a tumour..." He carried on speaking, but there are certain words in the English language that halt your existence. They're bullets that tear through your skin, pieces of shrapnel that rip you open and leave you gasping for air. They make all other words worthless, and tumour is most certainly one of them.

"...It's aggressive and in a precarious position, and, well... I don't really know what to say. It's a very rare case."

The sound from his lips distorted, the blood pulsing through my ears creating a waterfall of muffled noise. Seconds were hours and minutes, days. Was I still dreaming? Had my alarm yet to sound?

"Dante, I'm so sorry. I know this is a lot to take in, and I promise I'm going to do everything I can. There are more tests to have, and there are specialists who know far more than me, and—"

"What... what does all this mean?" I asked, the words scraping up my throat and exiting in a barely audible form.

Doc exhaled deep and long, slumping in his seat. "You have a brain tumour. It's bad. It's malignant, which means it's invasive and aggressive, and the location and size make it inoperable. Any potential treatment becomes very difficult in cases like these, but like I say, there's still—"

"Am I going to die?" I asked with a desperate and high-pitched squeak. He went to speak but was met with an empty breath instead. That said much more than any words could.

"I don't want you to think like that. There's still hope, and—"

"Doc, please, be honest with me," I said, and although short, it was possibly the most difficult sentence I've ever had to form.

"It's not good," he said, taking another deep mouthful of air. "It's in an awkward position... very rare. Cases like these are tough." He shook his head, his eyes red with despair. "I'm sorry."

He held me when I was a few weeks old and watched me grow from child-to-teenager, teenager-to-adult, and now, finally, adult-to-dying-man. The silence returned, once again haunting, taunting me lower into the chair.

Do you cry? ask questions? get angry? say nothing?

The seconds continued to tick by as the two of us stared at each other, although neither of us focused on anything in particular. "Oh... okay," I finally said. "So... how long do I have?" Each word was hollow, like a distant memory.

"I don't want you thinking like that. There are more tests to be had, and there are treatments you can try, and—"

"How long?" I snapped.

Placing both hands down on his desk, he leaned closer, the stale smell of coffee lingering in the space between us. It's crazy what we remember in such moments. "Five... six months. Maybe more, maybe less. It's hard to say, but those headaches you've been having, well, they'll get worse. A lot worse. I want to prescribe some..."

I drifted off once more as I tried to process the longest few minutes of my life. It was a normal day, but it had become monumental in the most unforgivable manner. This doesn't happen to young, fit, healthy twenty-two year olds. We don't get cancer or tumours; such nightmares are reserved for those approaching the end. I'm an average guy, so why is such a rare, seemingly impossible situation happening to me?

Spinning in circles, my mind refused to concentrate on any one thing. I needed to ask questions and create a plan, but nothing would settle. I was manic and frantic and bubbling within, and even though I could see his mouth move and I knew sounds were escaping, sounds that were forming words, words that I should listen to and devour, I couldn't bring myself to calm.

Doc began to push papers in my direction; leaflets and folders and business cards galore. There was a weekend's worth of reading already, but I doubted this was the end of it. Closing my eyes and taking a deep breath, I focussed on his words.

"...right, I want you to read as much of this as you can and come back in two days. I know it's a lot to take in, so please, go away, digest it, talk to your parents, and I'll sort out more tests for you. I'll do everything I can, Dante." He leaned in once more, his hands shaking on the desktop. "I know I said it isn't good, but that doesn't mean there isn't hope. People beat this kind of thing all of the time. You're strong, Dante. You're strong. You can do this."

I didn't know what to say, but I knew our meeting had come to an end. "Do you honestly think that?" I asked, the pitiful mouthful the only thing I could muster.

"There's always hope," he replied, but I knew, somehow, he didn't believe it.

At some point, I left his office, buttoned my jacket and tied my scarf. The tricky air suggested warmth, but the cooling breeze is quick to take you prisoner. Walking, I took no notice of where I was going, or for how long, merely walking and thinking about Doc's words, about the weeks of headaches, about how I woke up excited and willing to write, but how I no longer can. I've always written to escape, but there's no escaping this.

My cold, almost numb legs suggest I've wandered for hours. However long I've swayed, the time hasn't been spent wisely. I should be planning what to do next, or reading the booklets weighing down my pocket, or return to Doc's office and ask him questions and demand answers. Only, I can't seem to think about any one issue, merely scattered thoughts and images: the distress soon to be on my mother's face, for instance, or Wil and Ethan as they try to understand this impossible pain. I keep picturing her, too, although I know I shouldn't.

I can't recall arriving at Dean's Park, but at some point I crossed through the old gates and sat on this aged bench; the huge Cathedral peering down on me. Its dirty cream walls reach high into the sky, the colossal building a daunting sight. The gothic-styled spires and large, arched windows are grander than usual. I've seen this building hundreds of times, yet it must be fifteen years since it last moved me in this manner. Over time, it's become just another building, but now it's more: beautiful, philosophical, a work of art in its own right.

A relentless iciness surrounds me as the breeze twists and turns through the trees and bundles its way forward from the large building in front. The bulky wooden seat eats into my flesh, the chipped wood allowing damp to seep into my thighs. All around me is vacant, the days of the hot summer throng of bodies gone, and with it, the solitude and whistling silence. Nature is resting, the squealing breeze my only company.

No, it isn't resting, it's dying. Nature surrounds me: the ancient trees in front, the overgrown bushes to my left, and a browning patch of grass to my right. It's dying, giving in to its inevitable end. The smell of rotting foliage lingers, and although the trees are aglow with green, it's no longer lush; rather, fading and dimming. Soon the aged branches will be bare, the ground beneath it a soggy grave to fallen fauna.

I don't know why I'm here. Maybe I should have gone to work, or called someone, or gone straight home and began researching this new fate. The truth is, I'm too afraid to. Right now it isn't real, a dream I'll soon wake up from. Once I read the leaflets and understand my trauma, I must accept what I have. There's always been a future and I've always planned to do... to see... to experience so much. I've always dreamed of someday, but soon there will be no days left.

Today was normal, but now it isn't. It was ordinary, but now it's extraordinary. I was average, but now I'm unique.

READ THE REST OF TICK TO THE TOCK HERE >> smarturl.it/ticktock
