Monthly Archives: April 2013

Owl Eyes

She was a fine piece of ass,

With the most confident tits I’ve ever seen!

I’d be thankful later on,

I guess thankful is the word; thankful for the sex,

And thankful for her body, filling up my time spent.

There was smoke,

As in every scene that I play my role,

And her speech was high,

And her limbs let loose,

But her eyes were safe;

The pair she had stolen from an Owl,

She had a pair of Owl’s eyes,

As round as despair, and made to pity…


Posted in Poems | 10,341 Comments

I Want Them to Say…

They will probably say, “He was rarely the quiet one.”

But I want them to say, “He usually kept to himself,”

And I want them all to say, “There was always music playing in his room,

All kinds of music…

“He always spoke of a few faces that he knew,

And he carried in his walk, a whole other continent; not to mention,

He was usually calm in the winter.”

I want the store owner to say, “He was a polite young man,

Always quick with his shopping,”

And I want the doctor to say, “He tried to be funny with his words,

Living in his fields of pain,”

I’m so very sure that my barber will say, “He never really cared for his hair,

Bunch of dead cells, he used to call it.”

I want the pizza delivery guy to say, “I knew him,

He was generous and extremely fond of mushrooms, yeah I knew him.”

Deep down inside, I want them all to say, “We saw it coming,

He was troubled in some ways, and now that he’s gone,

What can we say?”


Posted in Poems | 10,701 Comments

Pain of Paper

I feel the pain of every piece of paper,

People praise the pen,


A picture portrayed, a photograph,

Of a patch of grass, an earthly path,

Present always, inside my mind,

I’m in a place, poised with peace,

I no longer feel the power,

But I feel for the pain of paper,

and so I pledge to the peaks of poems,

As I pace in line,

Soon to reach a practiced prose,

Save me this white land,

I have been here before,

And I wouldn’t want to be anywhere else.



Posted in Poems | 8,608 Comments

Invitation to a Party

They asked me to hell,

“Welcome! Welcome!” I was welcomed well…

A few days and nights, a room was set,

A miniature wooden desk,

A board of a bed, from which sleep had long drifted off…

They admired me, everyone that I met there,

And I was given the creamiest of chocolate ice creams;

Astounded by the taste with flying eyes,

I asked what it was and from where…?

They laughed; a few hands stroked my face,

 I was told it was time for sleep.

What a great hotel!

So many people of many stories; no matter what you want to hear,

I’ve got a story to tell…

Posted in Poems | 7,978 Comments

This Right Here


This right here feels similar,

To the last line of some story that I read,

The finishing credits of some movie.

This right here is my haven of faces,

It is my shrine of solitude.

Every time I enter my room,

John and Yoko wish me merry Christmas,

And they tell me that war is over but only if I want it.

On the other side, Sartre is puffing on his pipe

And his eyes seem to be judging Dali by the flowers on his mustache.

Brando is the Wild One to me still,

And he stares at me from behind his motorcycle.

This right here, is what has made Borges fall asleep in his library,

He looks peaceful, and above him,

Camus is wide awake, alert as he asks me for a light,

And Picasso is playing with his food staring at cubes in the corner.

Alfred has crossed his arms and there’s a crow upon his knee,

While he’s staring at me,

This right here is how,

I’ve come to fill the void of not being who I am

Frank constantly keeps telling me to do it My Way,

And The Beatles believe that love is all I need,

And it seems that Bob Marley tends to agree.

Hemingway’s drowned in work,

And I try not to disturb him or Dickens, sitting behind his desk.

Carver is here, and he looks all too serious for me to joke with,

And so, I look passed and drift to Marquez, oh Marquez!

I can always rely upon your smile.

I can always hear Malraux saying,

“There’s always a need for intoxication,”

Well, this right here is mine.

Posted in Poems | 9,685 Comments

Look at Her Now

She’s far too cool to be played,

And she’s far too smooth to stay the same,

Look at her now,

Little skinny Sara is no longer shy,

Much like everyone else, she’s learned to lie,

She used to paint, rivers and lakes,

Majestic mountains, she had never seen.

Look at her now, no longer afraid of hate.

Somehow, little skinny Sara is a woman now,

Constantly counting her numbers and flipping through invitations,

Keeping all eyes where she wants them,

She’s far too cool.

Somehow, I can’t understand it,

All the things we do, and how we change, just trying not to be alone.


Posted in Poems | 9,137 Comments

A Story by Vincent Miller

“Come on in,” said the Doctor. Vincent walked into the room, brushing his wavy brown hair back and closed the door quickly behind him.

“Hello Doctor Kowalski,” he said as he stood motionless for a moment.

“Come on in. Have a seat. It’s Vincent right?”

“Yes it is sir. My name is Vincent Miller,” he said, approaching the doctor’s table, slowly stretching his hand out towards him.

“You have a hell of a handshake.” The doctor exclaimed smiling. “Please sit down. It is such a treat to meet you; the son of a great writer.”

“Yes, yes” Vincent replied as he sat down and cleared his throat. “My father is of course Joseph Miller.”

“I haven’t had the pleasure of meeting him. I have seen your mother a couple of times and she’s told me a whole lot about you.”

“She speaks very fondly of you,” said Vincent.

“She’s very kind,” said the doctor. “I’m glad that you decided to meet me.”

“Well, sure,” said Vincent and added hesitantly, “I must say, I don’t know where to go from here.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, she’s been on my case to come see you for a while. Now that I’m here, I don’t know what comes next.”

The doctor let out a laugh as he leaned back in his leather chair behind his desk. He was a fat man with lovable cheeks that revealed many intriguing wrinkles whenever he smiled or laughed from his gut. “You’re here so we can get to know each other.”

“That’s fair,” Vincent replied.

“I want you to tell me about yourself.”

“How many ears are in on this?”

“Excuse me?”

“I mean, is it just us?”

“Well of course,” said the Doctor as he smiled. “What you say will stay here.”

“So it’s just us and the walls.”

“And of course my desk,” said the Doctor jokingly.

“I’m not sure if desks hear anything, but I’m certain that walls do.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Desks are soft and moody. They’re good for writing on,” said Vincent looking directly at the Doctor’s wooden table. “Words and emotions cling onto the walls. That’s how every room tells a story.”

“That’s actually very interesting. Do you really believe it though?”

“To be honest, I just made it up.”

“Clever,” said the Doctor. “Would you like to sit by the window?”

“Sure,” said Vincent.

“It’s a beautiful day,” said the Doctor as he seated himself in a leather sofa, ever so casually stretching his legs out. Vincent sat down across from him, while observing constantly the trees and the streets below. “Your mother gave me one of your stories to read. You write very articulately and you have so many comedic insights. How long have you been writing?”

“Since I was a kid,” Vincent replied.

“Personally, I think your story was brilliant.”

“My mother gave it to you to read?”

“That’s right,” said the Doctor. “She said you’re a fine young writer. The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree, is what I told her.”

“I guess so,” said Vincent. “Thank you Doctor.”

“I’m guessing from your story that you smoke.”

“Yes, and I’m guessing that my mother told you all about my habits long before she gave you the story.”

“That’s true. Why do I feel that you’re offended by this?”

“I’m not offended at all. I just feel that she has told you a lot of what she knows and all about who I am. As a result, we can skip a whole lot of introductory talk. I know my mother.”

“I know that you do,” said the Doctor. “Your mother has lots of love.”

“Yes, yes she does.”

“So there’s absolutely nothing wrong at all?”

“There probably is. There always is, isn’t there?”

“Can I ask you something Vincent?”

“Of course Doctor,” he replied.

“Will you answer me truthfully?”

“Of course I will.”

“How often do you make things up?”

“That all depends on how often I feel the need to be somewhere else.”

“Where would you want to be?”

“I don’t know. I mean, there are a lot of places I haven’t been.”

“So you plan on traveling.”

“I wouldn’t mind seeing some places.”

“Who would you take with you on your travels?”

“Why would I take anyone?”

“Oh I’m just guessing,” said the Doctor as he cleared his throat and continued, “I figured you to have a girlfriend if not a bunch of them.”

“Why would I take my girlfriend?”

“I don’t know,” said the Doctor and added quickly, “Lots of people travel with their girlfriends or lovers.”

“Lots of people travel alone as well,” Vincent replied instantly.

“I suppose you’re right. But isn’t it more fun to be with your girlfriend when you’re traveling the world?”

“Fun,” said Vincent. “It is fun, there’s no doubt about it. It’s great to have that fun as company while you’re flying all across the world, but you can’t have all the other stuff.”

“What other stuff?”

“When you want to fly all around, every day of the week will quickly seem the same even though your mobile world keeps changing from the inside out. Traveling turns foggy all the meaning and depth within a relationship, but there always is that fun. Wherever you go, you can find that fun and it won’t mean a thing.”

“Do you feel the need to be somewhere else right now?”

“Perhaps,” Vincent replied.

“How often do you feel like that at home?”

“I don’t know, every once in a while, everyone wants to get away.”

“Have you been up north?”

“No, I haven’t.”

“It’s wonderful.”

“I would love to see it for myself.”

“It’s the perfect place to take your girlfriend. There’s a lot of space and a lot of quiet for having fun!”

Vincent laughed as he turned his look to the window for a moment and stretched his arms upwards and behind his head. He leaned back comfortably and let out a sigh. “I have yet to meet a girl who isn’t a fan of city life.”

“Ah, you’re only nineteen my friend! Tell me, what’s her name?”

“Who’s name?”

“Your girlfriend’s name,” said the Doctor. “What is her name Vincent?”

“I don’t have a girlfriend doctor. I’ve had a few, one not very long ago.”

“What are you going to tell me; that you’ve lost faith in it all?”

“That’s exactly what I was going to say.”

“Well, like I said before, you’re only nineteen.”

“I’m not a branch hopper Doctor Kowalski.”

“That’s not what I think of you Vincent, but please continue. What do you mean?”

“I’m not the type who chases girls. I don’t jump from emotion to emotion whenever I get tired. I’ve come to realize that love lives and dies much like all else. All that stuff spoken about in poems and romantic verses of the past has long been a fantasy. It was a fantasy then and it’s a fantasy now; a fantasy that fulfills a great need. There’s no way around it.”

“Don’t you think romance is beautiful?”

“Sure I do,” replied Vincent. “I’m probably a romantic at heart.”

“Yes, I believe you are.”

“It’s funny,” said Vincent, his eyes falling still into a blurry gaze. “There was this girl; a friend of a friend. I’ve seen her plenty of times, but I’ve never really spoken with her. I’ve never stumbled upon what it is about her that nests her within my thoughts, all day long. Something in her smile, something about her eyes and the way she moves, attracts my brain from so far away. My brain, Doctor Kowalski…For the first time it’s the other way around.”

“I know what you mean. Usually it’s the heart that injects the mind with love.”

“My heart is satisfied with everything.”

“Is that true?”

“I’m quite sure.”

“Carelessness isn’t satisfaction.”

“I’m not careless,” Vincent exclaimed. “I just rather not pursue certain emotions anymore. Am I not allowed to declare this in my actions, or my words? What if, at any point in time I feel to have seen enough of the same scene? What if I’ve sincerely reached the conclusion that it’s not for me?”

“That isn’t the most important decision to be made,” said Doctor Kowalski. “A much better question to ask is, ‘What do you want?’ What drives you Vincent? Once you realize what that is, it becomes much easier to focus on acquiring all the necessary items and luxuries that will help you reach what you want in the long run.”

“You’re right,” said Vincent. “Who was your favorite character?”

“In your story?” said the Doctor, smiling as he started to think. “If I were to choose one, I’d say, the grandmother.”

“Wow,” said Vincent and added with a laugh, “Nobody likes the grandmother, you wouldn’t either Doctor, if you got to meet her.”

“Are all of your characters based on people that you know?”

“Pretty much all of them,” Vincent replied.

“So you don’t just make everything up as you go along.”

“No, I’m not able to do so because everything I write has already been made up.”

“So you don’t believe in self control?”

“No Doctor, I’m all about control. I control my emotions. That’s what I’ve been saying. I control them and I try to hold my words.”

“So that’s your way around it! I guess you’re right Vincent. Personally I still think you should approach the girl you keep thinking about.”

“Is that so?” said Vincent.

“I think you’re better off that way.”

“Maybe I will.”

“You should,” said the Doctor excitedly. “Like I said before, you’re only nineteen!”


“I should be going now,” said Vincent after having looked at his watch over and over again.

“You know, you’re my last session today. How about some coffee? If you want you can stay a little longer to talk.”

“Thanks a lot Doctor,” said Vincent, as he stood up slowly and pressed his index finger to the side of his head and added, “In my mind, I already stepped out the door.”

“Well then, bon voyage Vincent!” he shouted with a laugh from his gut as he shook his hand. “You’ve got a hell of a handshake kid.”

“Your handshake is never really important when you’re ‘the son of a great writer,’” said Vincent as he walked over to the door.

“Oh Vincent, before you go,” said the Doctor. “How come your story doesn’t have a title?”

Vincent shrugged his shoulders, threw up his eyebrows and tilted his head slightly to the right. “I don’t know Doctor, but I’ll make something up.”

Posted in Stories | 7,435 Comments


Some mornings, the thought of you rises, often before the birds, before the soft blanket of blue is pulled away, and most people are still snoring in a clueless comfort. Yes, I think of you sometimes. I think of you coming into my room. I think of you standing over my bed. I think of you saying: “One two three, one two three.”

Tell me Behrouz, who are we? Surely, I have never been what others hoped for me to be. Surely, I have rarely cared. Surely, there are sides of me that have hurt you, and surely, there are faces in me that you have never seen.

I have never had a hand (enthusiastic and driven) in your work. I am in no way a part of your success. I have only lived off what you have made.

“Listen to your heart,” you said to me, “Listen to that voice…”

If only I knew at that point how many voices would greet me later on in my head; the slithering devils in my veins!

I hold no grudge against you Behrouz. How can I? All we have is due to your hard work. Everything else lies in the individual decisions we have made and the personal paths we have taken. It is true that I have grown distant; it is blatantly obvious, but I must say, it didn’t happen overnight. Like I said to you in my first letter, over a year ago (which I am sure was read but never understood…), “There are too many factors all around and at play; front to back and overlapping, they muster mazes out of miniscule moments and deeps wells out of distinct incidents in time (occurrences/ actions) that have the potential to expand within the mind and ultimately consume years out of one’s character.”


From afar, I am proud of you and all the work you have done. From afar, I gaze in my head, at the changes we underwent, while together, while apart. From afar, in the heart of all that is cold, the thought of Iran beats down on the child in my soul. Here in my head, I am told not to return. From afar, the faces haunt me. From afar, the one year we spent in Shahrekord comes rushing into the damp and rotting corridors of my brain, and the thought of it, along with the voices that follow, are the piercing pain in my temples… the pain that provokes me at times to  wish my suicide attempts in Iran had been serious and successful. I am sure that this is a painful notion for you to hear. Quietly alone, from afar, I hope you will accept my sickness.

If I were to sit down with you, to confess my sins and wrongdoings, to reveal to you the secrets that so far have carried me here, it would…ah; it would surely burden you further!

            Tear it all; let it burn; scratch every letter, every line…start again…


He was human, in flesh and form,

Of human blood, and human bones;

His dreams were machines, born out of sand and rock,

His soul’s comfort was his knowledge needed,

Towering ambitions inside his core,

The likes of which, his people had never seen before…

Scattered times we shared the horizon on the road…

The road, was his peace of mind,

He drove as he feasted on his thoughts,

And when weary, he would sing.

Somewhere somehow, strangers we became…

Afloat in space, I let my Farsi fade,

The nightingales no longer sang to me those ancient verses,

Of the travels of Saadi or the loves of Hafez;

I demolished mountains of memories, or I guess I tried;

I guess, in the end, something must remain…but what?

Perhaps, long ago, I left innocence ignored,

Perhaps somewhere, some papers know…

Posted in Letters | 5,630 Comments

I’m Yet to Figure Out


There is a beautiful neighborhood near where I live. There is much history within its narrow streets. There’s also a creek that runs in between two long and winding rows of houses and abandoned buildings, where the shadows of the trees tremble in backyards and on stone and brick walls. I go there to walk around. Sometimes I sit on the withered and worn out stones lying at the miniature wooden door of some Armenian church, which has long been empty of a prayer. One day I’ll creep inside and see what it’s like in there. Quite frankly, until now that thought hadn’t occurred to me. Regardless, it is a beautiful neighborhood. I am more than certain that many people know of this place; however you can always find silence throughout the day and there never seems to be any heavy traffic. Like I said, it’s the history that lies within its narrow streets. History keeps people quiet as they come and go.

The other day I left my house with a letter I had received from abroad. I hadn’t opened it yet and I decided to go for a walk. The contents of the letter weighed heavy through the envelope and I knew that reading it would either kill me or intoxicate my eyes and soul. I decided to keep it sealed and unread and just walk around for a while, consumed by what I had done. I remember staring at myself in a mirror before leaving the house. I stared deep into my eyes and made many faces. “You could’ve picked silence,” I muttered with an evil grin and added hysterically, “But no! You had to make it known. I guess you’re happy now you fool! The end has arrived!” I remember letting out a laugh as I locked the house door and entered the street. A sentence came to mind. I repeated it as I began my walk. “I’m the man impartial of the outcome. I’m the man in a box made of me, and I shall breathe and go to sleep, night after night, regardless of the outcome.” I repeated it over and over again and I began to feel that it would make a wonderful poem.

I felt once again the weight of the outcome, put on paper, inside my pocket as I reached for my cell phone and turned it off. I had received the letter two days ago and since then I had observed only and quite critically the handwriting on the envelope, the stamp, the smoothness of each curve on every S. I had consumed for two days now, the focus and care that I felt had been put into the writing. I’d stared at the damn thing for hours on end unable to predict a single word and incapable of ridding myself of regret.

Winter seemed to be over. There weren’t many people out at midday. I made my way, speeding as usual, to the beautiful neighborhood where I go to walk. I noticed from afar a few kids that were tossing a plastic ball around. As I approached them, one of them fumbled the ball and it bounced off of his foot and rolled into the creek. The other two kids yelled at him and he dropped his head with his smile and walked over to the water. The kid got down on his hands and knees, on the edge of the grass and began to reach. “Do you need some help?” None of them said anything as I walked over to the water. The ball hadn’t even hit the water. It had landed perfectly against a plastic bag, which was filled with something soft. Something soft in a plastic bag saved their ball from the water. I didn’t question what it might’ve been. I sat down without looking at the kid next to me and made my way down calmly and grabbed the ball. “Here you go,” I said as I handed it to him and smiled.

“Thanks,” he said, getting up quickly and throwing the ball towards his friends. I came back out on the grass and continued my walk, further down the creek. There was a man walking in the opposite direction as me. He had a crooked cigarette in between his lips and his hands seemed to be stuffed incredibly deep within his jacket pockets. He wore jeans bearing streaks of mud and dirt with a few holes by his knees. He caught my stare as I walked by him and for some absurd reason that I’m yet to figure out, I smiled at him and said, “Hello.”

“Good day,” I heard him say when we had already passed each other. His voice ached in his throat, or so it seemed. There was something about his crooked cigarette and his weary eyes, or perhaps there was just some history in his worn out jeans.

About a quarter of an hour had gone by when I reached the silent church. There, I sat down as usual and had a smoke. I wasn’t alone. I ran my eyes down the creek and the snake like strip of grass. There was a young couple sitting by the water. The boy was leaning back against a tree with his feet stretched out towards the creek. The girl was sitting to his left with her legs crossed calmly as she stared at him constantly. Gradually I began to pay attention. “Where will you go?” she kept asking him. They were clueless to my presence behind them. Sitting there, taking silent drags off of a cigarette by the church, I stared at them attentively. “I love you with all my heart,” she said to him. “I will always love you and I don’t care what others think or say. I love you and that is all that matters to me.”

There were silent pauses here and there and I was leaning forward ever so casually, focusing on the boy’s head and waiting for him to speak. He seemed to be gazing blankly at the water and the girl’s eyes, from what I noticed, never once left the sight of the boy. She was facing him the whole time and I could see the side of her face. She was young, maybe sixteen or seventeen. My cigarette, for some absurd reason that I’m yet to figure out, tasted much more bitter than usual and I put it out with disgust, still keeping my eyes on the young couple by the water. “I could never find it in my heart to leave you,” she said as she grabbed his hand.

Within my gaze, within my thoughts, I wanted to walk over there, grab the boy by his collar and put him up against the tree. “Don’t believe her you idiot! What the hell is the matter with you, huh? What are you like sixteen? You don’t know anything you idiot! Sure as hell she doesn’t know what she’s talking about either. Open your eyes you stupid kid!”


I still walk around all the time, and I’m yet to figure out what to do and how to love. The contents of someone’s thought, weighs heavily within my chest.

Posted in Stories | 6,546 Comments

Center of Everything


My clothes were damp when I came back inside the house. They were all sitting at the dinner table; my family of friends. “Got enough rain?” said Paul. I took off my sweater and nodded my head. “How long were you out there?”

“Long enough,” I replied as I made my way over to the table. “What’re you guys doing?”

Nobody said anything for a moment as I shifted my eyes from Sam to John to Jane and finally to Paul and Mary. “We were waiting for you,” she said and Paul kept running his fingers on the back of her neck.

“Well I’m here.”

“Yes you are,” she said with a laugh.

“Anybody want a drink?” I said while scratching my head and stretching my back.

“Let’s pour some drinks,” Sam exclaimed as he got up from his seat.

“Don’t worry, I got it. Feel like being the bartender tonight,” I said with a smile.

“What else are you every other night?” said John.

“Every other night,” I said, raising my head. “Every other night, I’m the drunk. What is everyone having? Wine or Whiskey..?” I raised my hands up to my chest and cracked my knuckles all at once.

“Whiskey,” said John.

“I’ll start with the wine,” said Sam.

“Hey, look at this heavy drinker.”

“It’s alright,” I said. “I think I’ll start with the wine too.”  Mary shook her head.

“I’ll have some wine please,” said Jane.

“Sure thing,” I said and continued, “Hey Paul, do you want me to bring you a glass of milk or something?”

“No, that’s fine,” he said. “Just try not to break anything while you’re pouring the drinks.”

Mary and Jane laughed and Sam got up again and said, “I think I’ll help you out.”


We got the bottles and some glasses and got to work. “I’m not going to lie to you guys. I already had a few drinks earlier.”

“Yeah, we know,” said John.

“It’s not surprising,” said Sam.

“What? What’re you guys talking about?” I exclaimed. “I was just joking.”

“I bet your glass is still on the balcony,” said Paul, raising his eyebrows and mocking me with his teeth. For a while, I’d wanted to knock them out of his mouth!

“Yes, it is,” I said nodding my head and staring at the glass of wine in front of me.

“It’s okay,” said Jane. “You don’t drink like this all the time.”

“No, I don’t at all. How do you know that?”

“I can tell from your eyes.”

“She can read you,” said Mary.

“It’s true,” said Paul. I looked away from her and closed my eyes momentarily.

“I’m not the best person to read,” I said, looking at Sam and John all of a sudden.

“I disagree,” said Jane. “Every read is an interesting one.”

“We have super powers in our presence!” I exclaimed, tapping my fingers on the table foolishly and smiling at everyone. Nobody said anything or even smiled from what I remember. I reached for my drink and said, “So Jane, you can read people. Tell me, how does that work? It must be a whole lot better than fiction.” I let out a laugh looking over at John, who was then wearing a subtle smile, which seemed to consist of a whole lot of laughter within. “Is it similar to reading a biography? I’ve read a lot of people too you know!”

“I know that you’re really not trying to mock me.”

“Mock you? No!” I shouted and continued, “Maybe just a little bit. Who knows?”

“You’re a liar, and a bad one,” said Jane.

Everybody refrained from uttering a single word and John seemed to be holding his breath as well. “That’s true,” I nodded slowly and added, “But everybody knows that Jane.” I downed the wine in my glass aggressively, as I reached into my shirt pocket and took out my pack of smokes. “Is anybody going to join me?”

John got up from his seat and said, “Yeah, I’ll join you, friend.”

“I think I will too,” said Jane. I stared at her as she got up and John stood still as he was putting on his coat. She went over to her purse and took out a cigarette, and then she stared back at me and said, “Bet you didn’t see that coming huh?”

I said nothing and stared at her as she walked right past me. The smell of her perfume dragged me deeper into my gaze. Damn she smelt nice! Shortly after, when I snapped out of it, I heard Paul’s wicked laughter and John said, “Let’s go buddy.”

The clouds of rain that I’d spent a couple of hours watching earlier had stretched further down the view. The rain itself was gone but the wind remained. There were two lawn chairs on the balcony. John had comfortably seated himself in one and lit a cigarette. Jane stood there, to his right and I was to his left. “Sit down,” I said.

“Is that an offer or an order?”

“Whatever you want it to be sweetheart,” I said, taking a long and slow drag of my smoke and letting it out through my nose.

“Are you alright?”

“Yeah, I think so. What day is it today?”

“It’s Monday,” said John. I let out a sigh and moved to the edge of the balcony and looked down.

“You know when you’re a kid, and you pick your favorite day out of the week and you spend every hour of every other day anticipating it, time passes so much slower.” They were both staring at me, while the wind was constantly howling and I could still smell, through all the smoke and the moisture in the air, her perfume. “Everything starts to race when you realize that every day is just the same, if you’re nothing.”

“I would think the opposite,” said John.

“No, believe me; it passes faster when you know.” We all fell silent into our smokes. John dropped his eyes and stared at the ground, while mine couldn’t sit still within my head. Jane was staring at me, from what I saw through a few passing glances. “How many planes,” I said all of a sudden and repeated louder, “How many planes, do you guys think, land inTorontoevery day?” We all turned to look at the sky.

“I think there are ten in the sky right now.”

“I know, it’s unbelievable,” I replied.

“Yeah,” said John.

“So many people are up in the sky!” I shouted, throwing my arms up in the air while I turned around fully and faced them. “You know Jane, you have a beautiful smile.”

“Thank you,” she said.

“Don’t try to hide it now,” I said, pointing my finger at her childishly. She laughed and John flicked his cigarette off the balcony. My eyes followed it until it vanished from sight.

“I’m going inside,” he said and he was gone ever so quickly.

“Sit down,” I said.

“I’ll take it as it is,” she said and sat down. After sitting down next to her I reached underneath her seat. She stared at my hand with her smile and said, “What’re you looking for Bobby?”

“I left a friend somewhere here.” Her eyes lit up as I pulled out a small glass bottle of vodka and a metal cup.  “Do you like my friend?”

“Very much so,” she said.

“I’m pretty sure the cup is clean. Do you mind?”

“Not at all,” she replied as she put out her cigarette in the ashtray. I filled up half of the cup and handed it to her. She took a proper sip, made a face that I’d never before seen, and her smile came back as she gave it back to me. “My favorite day was always Wednesday.”

“Why’s that?” I said.

“I always felt that it was the center of the week. Kind of like the peak of a mountain, where you can see both sides.”

“That’s interesting.”

“What was yours?”

“Tuesday,” I said instantly.

“Why Tuesday?” she asked.

“Because nobody gives a damn about Tuesday,” I said.

“That couldn’t have been your reason.”

“Honestly I don’t even remember.”

There are a lot of things that I don’t remember. When I was a kid, time seemed to pass slowly and I could see everything. I don’t remember exactly how old I was when I realized how much there was to see. But I remember getting on some plane and leaving Toronto, that same week, on a clear and cold Thursday evening. I still remember how, for just a moment, she had made me feel like I, was the center of everything.

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