free write

He knew the dream like he knew the back of his hand, like the way her eyes shone brightly underneath the Christmas lights, strung up gaily around every tree in the city. He knew this dream; he held it close to his heart like a pendant. Like a memory, spun-out and recycled and just a little bit off. A little too saccharine. A little too blurry around the edges. Almost tangible; he could feel the way it slipped and slid through his fingers, but he couldn’t hold on.

He didn’t try anymore. He shouldn’t have tried anymore. It was a little too hard to keep trying. To keep caring. And so he didn’t.

But the fact remained that sometimes Jeremy Sweet woke up in the morning in his single bed feeling as though something was lacking. Something was out of place, out of sight, out of reach and he couldn’t place his finger on it.

Sometimes Jeremy Sweet woke up and had to sift through all the thoughts and feelings in his mind and in his body to find what was real and what was just imaginary. What might have been real at one point, but the opportunity had passed a long time ago.

And sometimes Jeremy Sweet woke up imagining his arms wrapped around a warm, familiar body. Not in a sexual way, for Jeremy Sweet was not very much of a sexual person. Lacked the basic social skills necessary for any interaction that could lead to such an opportunity.

He didn’t try anymore. He probably could have tried, but it was just a little too hard. To keep trying. To keep caring. So he didn’t.

Instead, Jeremy Sweet sat up and ignored his hole-punched heart and slipped on the slippers he found in a department store last January for a reasonable price and he gave himself a minute to dawdle. He listened to the steady tick of the clock that hung high on the opposite wall, above the window that looked out onto the city, enveloped in its gray winter cloak.

The minute hand moved and Jeremy Sweet stood up and let his muscles stretch and protest and he lifted his arms high above his head, like rockets destined for the moon. His thin cotton shirt rode up and revealed his pale, white stomach. It was plain, really, just like everything else about him. He lacked muscles, lacked definition in general and it often reminded him of how his mother used to chide him as a child. Bean pole, she used to call him.

Jeremy knew it was a term of endearment, but it still left a bad taste in his mouth.

(unfinished)