Fiction #1

Is it possible that I was the one who should have said something? If I did say anything I was sure to be branded. There is nothing more grossly noxious to my conscience than to have a stranger assure himself of what or who or how I am. It’s disconcerting. Granted I am not one to dwell on a stranger’s thoughts, but sadly sometimes that is all there is left to think about. I can sit and read and enjoy what I am reading and think about what I am reading and inwardly debate what I am reading, but it can last for only so long until I am trapped by the bastard who is internalizing my whole being with a single image or word. Why the hell do I care?

Most of the time, due to sharp judgment, or ignorantly exposing yourself, the stranger is right. The image he gets of you is perfect.

I was standing around after a melee watching humanity try and correct itself like the tail of an unfortunate lizard. I can never help but wonder what happens to their tails. And if it really is as painlessly easy as we imagine it is for these reptiles to grow them back. Anyway, we we’re downtown at Triagliori’s, a ritzy Italian place we really couldn’t afford. It was strictly an evening restaurant, dimly lit with intimate settings that are easy to imagine. Just think purposely, not shamelessly, romantic or the scene from Lady and the Tramp where the spaghetti plays cupid. The inside of that place. Triple-tiered crystal chandeliers demanding that each passerby notice its spectrums. The walls were naked left only with cream-colored paint to allow the fire’s reflection. The theme of the setting seemed to be of reflections. The walls and ceilings in the waiting area and bathrooms were mirrored. No gold, steel, or any metal to serve as borders; just mirrors bordering mirrors to allow for its infinite reflection. This was not our type of place, but we were there in celebration of Jack’s passing the bar.

He had turned 26 three days earlier and would have been practicing for Myers & Jackson, adjacent to the block where we were eating that night. Jack grew up loathing anything remotely related to rules, especially when it was disguised in theory. It is funny how things work out.

Anyway, we were just having our crummy bread plates taken away when all of a sudden…I’m sorry. Let me introduce you to the table. It was the aforementioned Jack and myself. Mom and Dad sat to the right of Jack, who was at the head of the table. To the left of Jack was his fiancé, Marissa, followed by my wife, also Marisa, but with one “s”. I was opposite Jack at the ass of the table. Jack had won this match.

We were never competitive, but being brothers we knew we had to have some sibling shtick in order to maintain an edge of normality. We were four years apart, a gap that normally yields some sort of rivalry deemed brotherly love. But we were really just in love with each other: occasional arguments, aimless roughhousing, but never anything serious to permanently etch unhappy moments onto our brain. When I say Jack “won” I mean that he won the match of mates. Marissa, who had twice as many ‘S’s as my Marisa, was a strikingly gorgeous brunette, whom Jack had met while in law school...