The Couch - A short story from the 'Images from the life of a social sputum' collection

Word by word, one person leaving after the other, and they were left alone. That wasn’t his intention, which made him a tad uncomfortable. He didn’t feel like going home yet, however, so he stalled. And fucked up.

The owner of the pub gave him a sign it’s closing time. And indeed, they were the last patrons there. He had a few, quite a few actually, and reasoning went down the drain – instincts took over. He felt particularly distant from everything. Being alone transformed into loneliness. It broke him. He invited her over.

The couch. They’re sitting quietly in the dark, aside from the TV he’s using to play music. She obviously never heard any of the songs. And how would she? It felt as if he were cheating the system, giving her secret codes to beat the game. And taking the experience of discovery away from her. Yes, he’ll unlock some knowledge for her, he’ll catapult her hundreds of steps ahead in one night. Or he could, at least. She’s a high school senior, after all. You fucking idiot.

There are these bands and songs that are better than textbooks, life lessons, and experiences. They transport you to a different dimension of thought, where laws up until that point familiar no longer apply and, at least for a moment, let you understand the inconceivable. However, at least in the beginning, one needs a guide.

He felt robbed because he didn’t have someone to show him the ropes when he was younger, because he had to, painfully slowly, figure everything out on his own. Truth be told, the gradual rise let everything settle into place and dictated a sustainable pace. Still, had someone opened his eyes at sixteen to a tenth of what he knows now, his knowledge today would be tenfold. Or at least he thought so.

He knew people who had that privilege. Older sisters or women whose eye they caught, who’s show them a few tricks. Most of them got spat out into the world of adults, appeared to have found their footing, but remained somehow damaged. Like a sword that shatters because it got tempered at a temperature it couldn’t yet handle, instead of progressively. But this kid is brilliant. She could take it.

She took his hand, eyes still closed.

It felt like his astral projection, from somewhere around the ceiling, slammed back into his body. Shit, what now?