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werewolf
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he sat alone at the restaurant, eating his food as if to give the impression, if anyone cared to notice, that he was a food critic savoring and judging each bite with the weariness that comes from repitition. nobody really noticed. he heard others laughing, and like all away from the laughter, presumed they knew more than they ever do, presumed they were laughing at him. did they know it was the one year anniversary of the love of his life's death? they had been inseparable since they were thirteen. they never got married, they didn't need to. no contract is necessary when there's a constant meeting of the minds. she was the closet thing he had ever seen to his consciousness being replicated, the nearest evidence that other people were even real. if the waitress, if the rest of the people in this restaurant only knew about her, they'd instantly fall in love with him. and yet it wouldn't ease his sorrow. their loving him, and his inability to be consoled by it all made him secretly happy. of course, none of it was true. he just concocted these things in his own head. he was eating at a restaurant because he felt most comfortable alone. it was really no less lonely than just saying whatever everyone else wanted to hear. he looked out the window and looked at the most striking portion of the tableau. it was some leaves sillohueted against a window. they looked fake, they looked like theatre props. it made the inside of that restaurant seem the only real thing. the story he made up could be true, i'm sure it's happened somewhere to someone. it wasn't like his more outlandish imaginings, where he wondered what would happen if someone could be invisible, or if someone had the ability to mentally control each person on this earth only once for twenty-four hours. the true story probably wouldn't have had them in love from thirteen. sixteen maybe, more likely nineteen. thirteen just reeked too much of childhood, and childhood things. too good, too pure. why all the stories? he just wanted people to love him i suppose. he knew he could win them over all one at a time. but that was too slow, too arduous and taxing. one big story and bam. right now he felt like the most unknown famous person in the world. problem was, you have to tell a story all on your own when you don't have someone else to tailor it to. you really can only expose yourself when you tell those kind of stories. yet those are the ones we love people on an abstract and shared level for. so be it. god he was drunk. probably'll get pulled over, that kind of night. then just another person, officer, professor, mother, boss who won't buy his story. sitting alone in a restaurant telling his stories to himself would suit him just fine for now, no one questioning him, no reason to. another glass of wine.
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051102
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