Wildcard Wednesday
Last Wish

So for one Wednesday I wrote a not particularly exciting character vignette. Which I may turn into a not particularly exciting story. Why, you ask? Because it was the only realistic fiction idea I thought of in a long while, and I'm bad at realistic fiction, so I figured I'd give it a go. I'd be honored if people read it (start with the vignette as that is now the first part). But I totally understand if you don't want to. Comments on the writing (even the brutal truth) are welcome. This will be an ongoing story until it ends or people throw enough rotten fruit at me. The title, as seen above, is Last Wish.

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Tory didn't listen to Brenda and asked the barista on a date. He often didn't listen to Brenda. It was the cornerstone of their relationship. It had been a problem when they were dating but somehow, as friends, it just worked. Go figure. People always said you should marry your best friend, but Tory suspected if he'd done that, he wouldn't have one anymore.

When Tory arrived his typical fifteen minutes late, the girl was already sitting at a table, playing with her smart phone. When she looked up, she smiled and waved enthusiastically. This was good. Any girl who would get upset over punctuality would never have lasted fifteen minutes with Tory--or rather, without him, as he wouldn't have shown up by then.

"Hey," she said.

"Sorry for being late." Tory said, still standing behind the chair as he did. It was best to get this formality out of the way first before he even sat down.

The girl waved her hand. "Oh, I didn't even notice. I'm stuck on level nine of Angry Birds." She flashed him the phone before sticking it back in her pocket.

Tory sat down. Plus one point for being unphased by lateness. Minus one point for being entertained a full fifteen minutes by a mindless cell phone app. So far she broke even. Not too bad.

Her name was Susan. Tory had to remind himself not to call her Coffee Girl, which was what he called her in his head. She didn't have the gravity of a Susan but didn't look much like a Susie either. Her hair was pulled back in a blond top knot and her grin seemed ever-present. If Tory had matched her grin for grin, his mouth would have started hurting after the first minute. Instead he maintained what he hoped was a pleasant neutral face, smiling whenever he felt it was appropriate.

They ordered drinks and talked first date pleasantries. Tory still thought it was rather clever of him to ask her out for coffee at the competitors to where she worked. No matter how lame Brenda thought it was. Anyway, it had worked.

Then a song came on the ambient music overhead, and the girl became excited. "Mmm," she swallowed her hot drink a little too quickly in an effort to speak and had to pause an extra moment to grimace. Then she finally said, "I love this song!" and proceeded to launch into a long explanation of the other bands this one was like--all bands Tory had never heard of--and how the radio stuff wasn't nearly as good as the actual albums, and how all music really ought to be heard live...

God. She was one of those. It wasn't strictly music lovers. Although, there did seem to be an awful lot of people far too willing to lecture on the virtue of polyphonics or vamping. What was with that? Still, the real problem was that she had this overriding passion, something that lit her up from the inside out. It was beautiful, depressing, and annoying all at the same time because Tory wasn't that passionate about anything.

"So, you're an artist, right?"

Yes, that. People assumed that's what lit Tory from the inside. Maybe it had once. Tory wasn't sure. He thought he remembered a thrill better than orgasm upon achieving a perfect painting. But he hadn't had that thrill (or an orgasm initiated by someone else for that matter) in quite some time. Perhaps it was just a false memory, just a dream to convince him that life wasn't meaningless and that he shouldn't walk in front of a bus.

But, of course, he couldn't do that. His family would be upset. More importantly, Brenda would haunt him. Usually it was the dead who haunted the living, but if he ever did anything like commit suicide, he was sure six feet of dirt wouldn't be enough to save him from Brenda's wrath. It was a comforting thought.

"Um, hello?" Ugh. He had spaced out already, convinced the date was a lost cause. But Coffee Girl--Susan--deserved to have him at least go through the motions. Then he would say he'd call her, and he wouldn't. And she'd sign him off as a lying jerk and forget about him. It would be his gift to her.

"Right, yeah, I'm a painter." Then the inevitable questions: "What do you paint?" Abstract art. A bit of a mix between Keith Haring and Picasso. He hated that description, but it was the only one people understood--after half of them went home and looked up Keith Haring. "Do you sell your work?" Yes, and practically all the paintings are snapped up by a gay Norwegian couple. No, he wasn't rich or famous, but thanks to the gay Norwegian couple and his job as a model for several art classes at his University, it paid the bills. "A nude model?" Yes. His date raised her eyebrows. That was the typical response. He made the usual comment about classes having trouble finding male models. He didn't mention that was how he'd met Jodi, and how Jodi had met her next boyfriend. That girl had a serious nude model dating complex. Susan-who-didn't-look-like-a-Susan asked the usual questions about whether modeling nude was awkward. He joked only if it was cold. They laughed and chatted about other forgettable things.

Then the date was over and they were saying goodbye, and he was saying he'd call her. Actually, later that night, he'd call Brenda. Brenda loved being right. Then he left the cafe.