"It was a fast year, a good year. You learned about one another in the way that only people who sleep together can. You spoke in the quiet of night, in the moments before unconsciousness; you spoke about your dreams of becoming something more than what you already were, she of her desire to become a "capitalist pig" (her words, not yours). She wanted money and recognition and comfort, and she was content in knowing that soon she would have it. She spoke of her mother and father, who both lay dying somewhere in the same hospital in a faraway state. You got the impression that she thought she might be able to save them if the timing and money were right.
You told her the tales of your youth, the comedic adventures of an anarchic punk with too much time on his hands. These were the stories you had used in the past to disarm female conquests, but here the telling was different: it was you bearing the inner-workings of the neurological machine sometimes called a "soul." You had made the incision, you had torn it open, and you had spilled your guts.
But things are not all meant to last."
-- an excerpt from my new short story, English Muffins Are For Closers, which can be read in its entirety here or by clicking the "Prose" button above