Chapter one? Be Brutal!
1.
Nichole sat staring at her table, the same table she stared at every Friday for the past five years. Ever since she was a sophomore in high school she visited this bar, drinking then to be a rebel, drinking now to remember then. She was happy then, her friends came with her to drink at that table. Now, their memories brought the bitter world of isolation crashing down around her. Still, she drank. She lit a cigarette and sighed. Today was tough, her best friend was getting married and when she shared the news with her mother she was forced to endure another conversation about her success in life. Her friends had all gone off to better things; they all went to make something of themselves. She was scared; even at the young age of twenty-one she feared that her beauty would begin to fade. With her finger, she traced a name carved into the table, the name of her high school sweetheart. He had gone off to better things; better schools, better women. She sighed again and spoke to herself, something she often did in her solitude. “I am alone.” She hated the idea.
She glanced up from her table and saw a stranger enter the bar. The entire bar took notice of him, this was a small town. A few seconds later the barflies went back to their drink and the workers back to their work. This was a privet town. She continued to watch him. The look on his face and the gray hairs on his head belied his youth. If she had to guess, he was in his late twenties. She watched him walk over to the corner table, opposite her own corner. “As far way from everyone as possible” she mused. She watched him light a cigar and pull a book out from under his jacket. He clearly wanted to be left alone.
Nichole had consumed just enough liquor that evening to feel comfortable talking to a stranger. At any rate, she wasn’t comfortable with her recent revelation of solitude and wasn’t the type to wallow in misery. She felt herself stand up and walk over to his table. “Notes from the underground” she said to him “one of my favorite authors” she smiled. He looked up from the table to examine his present nuisance then turned back to his book. When his head turned, she expected a smile but found none. “I am getting nowhere” she thought “he clearly wants to be left alone.” She was shocked to find herself sliding into the booth across from him. “This is all the fault of that damn liquor!”
She saw him glance up at her. “Was that out loud?” she thought. She placed her hand over her lips and stared at his cigar. Finally, in a low voice, he spoke. “Do I know you?” He asked in a tone harsher than he meant. “Um . . . no” She said glancing around “but we have a mutual friend.” “Damn! He hasn’t even glanced up from his book.” This time she was sure she was not speaking aloud. “A mutual friend’ Hmm? Who might that be?” She lit another cigarette, smiled and said “Nicotine.” Though his face was still in his book, she saw a smile begin to form at the edge of his mouth, but like a vapor, it was gone. “Nicotine is not my friend” he said. “Then why do you smoke?” She asked. She had him now, trapped in a conversation. “I only smoke one cigar, on this one day” “Why is that?” He closed his book and looked up at her “Because today . . . Is a red letter day”
1.
Nichole sat staring at her table, the same table she stared at every Friday for the past five years. Ever since she was a sophomore in high school she visited this bar, drinking then to be a rebel, drinking now to remember then. She was happy then, her friends came with her to drink at that table. Now, their memories brought the bitter world of isolation crashing down around her. Still, she drank. She lit a cigarette and sighed. Today was tough, her best friend was getting married and when she shared the news with her mother she was forced to endure another conversation about her success in life. Her friends had all gone off to better things; they all went to make something of themselves. She was scared; even at the young age of twenty-one she feared that her beauty would begin to fade. With her finger, she traced a name carved into the table, the name of her high school sweetheart. He had gone off to better things; better schools, better women. She sighed again and spoke to herself, something she often did in her solitude. “I am alone.” She hated the idea.
She glanced up from her table and saw a stranger enter the bar. The entire bar took notice of him, this was a small town. A few seconds later the barflies went back to their drink and the workers back to their work. This was a privet town. She continued to watch him. The look on his face and the gray hairs on his head belied his youth. If she had to guess, he was in his late twenties. She watched him walk over to the corner table, opposite her own corner. “As far way from everyone as possible” she mused. She watched him light a cigar and pull a book out from under his jacket. He clearly wanted to be left alone.
Nichole had consumed just enough liquor that evening to feel comfortable talking to a stranger. At any rate, she wasn’t comfortable with her recent revelation of solitude and wasn’t the type to wallow in misery. She felt herself stand up and walk over to his table. “Notes from the underground” she said to him “one of my favorite authors” she smiled. He looked up from the table to examine his present nuisance then turned back to his book. When his head turned, she expected a smile but found none. “I am getting nowhere” she thought “he clearly wants to be left alone.” She was shocked to find herself sliding into the booth across from him. “This is all the fault of that damn liquor!”
She saw him glance up at her. “Was that out loud?” she thought. She placed her hand over her lips and stared at his cigar. Finally, in a low voice, he spoke. “Do I know you?” He asked in a tone harsher than he meant. “Um . . . no” She said glancing around “but we have a mutual friend.” “Damn! He hasn’t even glanced up from his book.” This time she was sure she was not speaking aloud. “A mutual friend’ Hmm? Who might that be?” She lit another cigarette, smiled and said “Nicotine.” Though his face was still in his book, she saw a smile begin to form at the edge of his mouth, but like a vapor, it was gone. “Nicotine is not my friend” he said. “Then why do you smoke?” She asked. She had him now, trapped in a conversation. “I only smoke one cigar, on this one day” “Why is that?” He closed his book and looked up at her “Because today . . . Is a red letter day”
