Martin decided on his 24th birthday overlooking the Potomac River that he would not jump from the ledge, but rather die alone in a state of uncaring and defiance. One day in the distant future he would sit on a shabby armchair wearing a disgusting pink bathrobe and sip tea from a plastic cup with one pinky extended and wear a purple hat like his grandmother always went on about. It would be a vintage tradition by then, as he called it. He quite liked vintage traditions, and he would die an old lady if it killed him.
The real reason he didn't jump dealt more with the fact that looking passed the toes of his girlfriend's worn out Converse sneakers he wore despite being two sizes too small, he could see the water scarcely three inches below the unbarred edge of the sidewalk and he thought at this time of year he'd surely freeze to death. Death was fine and dandy, but freezing to death sounded too painful and then he'd be a fat, bloated corpse sopping inside a stuffy white-lined coffin.
"Better to go home," he told the water, by this point immune to any passers-by who stared, "then to freeze to death in a bed of chewed-up, wasted cigarette butts."
A man blaring an iPod walking a scruffy dog jogged by without so much as a backward glance.
"It's what separates the tourists from the residents," he told the lady wrapped in at least three jackets and skinny jeans tucked into Ugg boots. She did a double-take to look at him. He nodded at the man's retreating back; by this point he'd burst into a chorus of some new Usher song. "Residents don't stare," he finished, and the lady mouthed something before shaking her curls and moving on.
Walking off he thumbed the touchscreen of his phone until it read "on my way, be home @ 6" and sent it to Monica. Marty and Monica; it still made him smile at the utter cheesy-ness of it all. Not that she was really he's girlfriend. She'd drop dead before she dated another human being.
He quickened his pace despite the blister forming on his ankle; she would kill him when she saw he'd stolen her shoes again. They just felt so petite compared to the clunking boots and sneakers in the men's aisles, made for running the basketball courts and stomping vigorously over the asphalt parking lots like the very ground would break loose
The real reason he didn't jump dealt more with the fact that looking passed the toes of his girlfriend's worn out Converse sneakers he wore despite being two sizes too small, he could see the water scarcely three inches below the unbarred edge of the sidewalk and he thought at this time of year he'd surely freeze to death. Death was fine and dandy, but freezing to death sounded too painful and then he'd be a fat, bloated corpse sopping inside a stuffy white-lined coffin.
"Better to go home," he told the water, by this point immune to any passers-by who stared, "then to freeze to death in a bed of chewed-up, wasted cigarette butts."
A man blaring an iPod walking a scruffy dog jogged by without so much as a backward glance.
"It's what separates the tourists from the residents," he told the lady wrapped in at least three jackets and skinny jeans tucked into Ugg boots. She did a double-take to look at him. He nodded at the man's retreating back; by this point he'd burst into a chorus of some new Usher song. "Residents don't stare," he finished, and the lady mouthed something before shaking her curls and moving on.
Walking off he thumbed the touchscreen of his phone until it read "on my way, be home @ 6" and sent it to Monica. Marty and Monica; it still made him smile at the utter cheesy-ness of it all. Not that she was really he's girlfriend. She'd drop dead before she dated another human being.
He quickened his pace despite the blister forming on his ankle; she would kill him when she saw he'd stolen her shoes again. They just felt so petite compared to the clunking boots and sneakers in the men's aisles, made for running the basketball courts and stomping vigorously over the asphalt parking lots like the very ground would break loose
