Request

"Hey. Mr. B. Do you think we could, you know, start a club?"

"Yes! Absolutely! Definitely! I would never stop you. Let me just talk to my supervisors. I'm sure they'll say yes. Well, maybe they'll say yes. They don't say yes too much. But I'm sure they will, to this. If only you agree to sign on the dotted line. In blood, please, with a platinum-plaited pen. Don't forget that you're waiving your legal rights and we'll never really give you want you want, anyway, even if you do tack onto another club. Also, pay us a million dollars."

"Okay. Sure."

Advice

"Can I ask you something?"

"Of course."

"What if I did something bad for a very good reason? Would that be okay?"

"I don't think I understand. What did you do?"

"Nothing. Yet."

"What are you going to do?"

"Maybe nothing. I'm not sure."

"So this is a purely hypothetical situation?"

"Yeah."

"Well, I guess it wouldn't be that bad, if you did it for a really good reason. Is it for a really good reason?"

"Yeah."

"Then I guess it's fine."

"So you're NOT mad that I punched your boyfriend when he ran over my basketball? And that I lied that I did nothing? Because that would be really great."

Ending

We waved in the New Year with bells.
Across the street, Mr. Rochester died.
None of us knew until the morning.
He died at precisely midnight--
He'd fallen asleep.
And the bells on TV woke him so sharply
That he had a heart attack.

Happenstance

My doctor had prescribed me caffeine pills. My sister, the insomniac, had sedatives. I took the wrong one by accident.

I maintain that's the reason why I fell asleep on your shoulder that night. Sorry about that, by the way.

But it was definitely not intentional in any way. Definitely, certainly not. No chance.

You liked me anyway, by pure happenstance, though. So everything was okay, regardless.

Irony

As it turned out, I was allergic to the aromatherapy oil.
So I didn't actually have a cold.
I would never really be able to smell again.

Midnight

Sixteen seconds until the last day I lived here.
Fifteen.
Fourteen.

My best friend held my hand mitten-style. She didn't want me to leave.
I didn't want me to leave.
Thirteen.

When I had more than one day, the leaving hadn't seemed so unbearable. Having one day left was horrible. I felt miserable.
Twelve.
Eleven.
Ten.

Secret

Heart off your sleeve, ace in the hole.
Lock away the evil, Pandora.
Freemasons hiding underground.
If you want me to, I'll tell you all the things you didn't know.
Don't forget: ignorance is bliss.
So here's the key.
And here's the drawer.
Think before you open.