...WIP more middle chapter...

Stupid Fiction.

I didn't go out with Michael at all. I stepped off that curb, realized what night it was, and walked the six blocks to my apartment. Letting myself into what can only loosely be called the foyer, I grabbed what was clearly a bunch of mistreated letters from my box, and proceeded up the flight of stairs to my landing.

Yeah, it seems really movie-ish, doesn't it? There's always a landing, and there's always a flight of stairs, and a semi-communal living arrangement. It's always private, but not too private, so that if something bad were ever to happen, well there would be witnesses, but they'd be hard to find, thus making it relatively suspenseful. Luckily, this is not my life. My apartment, because I can't bring myself to call it a "flat"--I'd never be hip enough for one of those--greeted me in the way that homes do. If there was a place that I actually liked being, it was here. Slipping out of my shoes, padding across the worn wood floors in sock feet, I said my hellos to the kitchen and living room area. They answered with their usual calming silence. This was to be expected, right? Right.

*the author would like to note that this doesn't appear to be the same house that our hero lived in during an earlier middle chapter--I'm sure this will all iron itself out later:)*

I flicked the tv on from the kitchen, and there it was. So this is my problem with fiction, particularly televised fiction. It's beautiful and good. And it makes me want what they have. The tv shows me this handsome man and this beautiful woman, and of course they like each other, although for plot purposes they can't say it out loud. And yet they find themselves in romantic contexts, which allows me to think, "oh sweet jesus, here it comes", only to be let down, and get the same old, "not yet". Maybe the finale. At any rate, I called Michael, not wanting to be a total ass.

*ring*

"what?"

"I'm not coming"

"No shit."

"Oh come on," he does know me after all.

"You watching tv?"

"..."

He sighs. "Dude. Get OUT."

"I did that. Remember? Still thinking that was not my best move."

It's his turn for the pause "...".

"Look, I'll see you at work tomorrow."

"Yeah, fine. Did you see Sam on your way out? She passed me, headed back to the office."

"No....why does that matter?"

"i would have thought you would have crossed paths, that's all. She looked pissed."

"While that does interest me, she always looks like that. It's because of her head, and her face. You know this." I can hear him smiling. This is one of our favorite jokes. And it's true. She does always look pissed. It's that whole, my face is too big for my head, and my head is the wrong shape for my shoulders, and the rest...I can't even begin. In Michael's most eloquent, and Guinness-deluged moment, it's a trainwreck. Still, odd that she'd be headed back. We're usually the last two out. He hangs up.

I stop caring as the commercial break ends. I should work out, my abs don't look nearly as good as that guy's. THEN I bet that girl just shows up at the door, on the landing, up from the single flight of stairs, where she's just found my apartment number on my empty mailbox. I stop, looking expectantly at the door. I swear, that never works, but I keep hoping it will.