In so Few Words - A Short Story

‘‘There is something to be said about suffering in vain. First, however, it must be noted that I am in a position of immense privilege. I have enough money for me to not have to worry, I have a loving family, I have friends that (I hope) like me, I have a little dog that wags his tail when he sees me, I teach what I love, and I spend my time doing (mostly) the things I want to do. So, then, it should be clear now that all my suffering, however external it may get, is in vain. Perhaps there’s something to be said about human nature and discontentment, in that - for someone in my position - it’s only natural to want more. There is no need for survival, no need for reality, there is only what I want - I need nothing, therefore I am nothing. An animal that does not eat, drink or breathe is not an animal at all, but a bacterium. It is present, yes, it is also very much a real thing, yes, but it is nothing in comparison to the depth of the world surrounding it. A human being is just as reliant on needs as any other living thing, so when all of these needs are met, there burns this insatiable desire to transcend the human form, to be your own being, to be - as you would like to think - yourself. There is, however, also no such thing. Therefore, what we are left with is an abyss, eating itself, and everything around it. All for the sake of; well, for lack of a better term, jack shit.’’

K. Reiner sat at his single desk, lights turned off, with a burning cigarette marching towards his slimly bent fingers. He glared at the wretched paper before him, unsure as to the honesty of his words. He had always aspired to be an honest writer, something he had only ever acknowledged in lectures and, on occasion, to his psychiatrist. Then again, he thought, every good writer must find his great lie. That being, some grand writerly thought - or performative feeling - that one must cling to in order to survive. He had been told once, by a teacher no less, that only writers… that only writers, good ones, bleed ink. At the time, K. Reiner had only been five years old, and took these words very literally - in the sense that, well, he went home that same evening and ran a pencil down his forearm. There remains, now, a long - darkened - scar, right below his left hand.

‘‘It is this humour, this crudeness, which enables me to write in this style, for if I were too honest, I would not have the same intentions in finishing this text.’

He lumbered over that sentence until the words took off the page, he then ripped the entire thing out of its place, scoffed at his typewriter, and threw it out of his window as if it were a scalding hot stone. He found that what he had written was self aware, and he resented self awareness - at least when it came to the sacred act of writing. There was to be complete suspension of disbelief, there was to be no irony, no acting, no spillage and, if he could help it, no sympathy. Or pity. A writer must be self serious. That was his motto.

K. Reiner had no confidence in his latest essay, one he wished to be deeply personal. His work had always been criticised as cold and mechanical. The New Yorker labeled him an industrialist, whatever that means. He had something to prove now, not to his students, nor his brothers - but rather to a greater public. His cigarette had nearly burnt out between his index and middle finger, but his focus on his work distracted him from the oncoming heat about to burn his skin.

He slouched his slender back forwards, cracking his spine in doing so, and turned on his precious desk lamp. This rather abstract turquoise lamp was made by a sculptor friend of his, which he had got as payment for dealing with her drunkenness one New Year’s Eve. It must have been 1957, or a few minutes to 1957, when she charged into the room and declared -    ‘I am Mother Nature and all must suckle at my branches!’ She, of course, was met with silence. The art crowd never was much for accepting the nature of things. It was then that K. Reiner jumped in front of her and bellowed ‘And I am Father Nature, all must suck my sap!’ This very low brow material was not the comedic saviour of the night, but it jolted the room just enough to distract them from Reiner and his pal, who had begun to projectile vomit the very second he led her out the door.

There were certainly other elements to the gift, but the lamp had been given to K. Reiner simply because he was willing to embarrass himself. A virtue he often exploited. It was interesting, then, to his friends - that Reiner was so stubborn and precise when it came to the amount of shame he allowed himself to wallow in when writing. He had once ended a book with an apology to the reader, then sent it to his publisher. It was on his walk home from the mailbox, however, he realised what a disastrous embarrassment that was - and decided to run back, kick the mailbox to the ground, and assault the metal until it had to be taken away from an authority much more powerful than The Postal Service. He could not embarrass his words. 

In recalling these memories and qualities, K. Reiner found himself in a particularly nostalgic mood. He could not be in it for long, though, for it would distract him from his task. He considered nostalgia a poison. He understood, yes, that it could bring some sense of wistful joy to the average person - but in the end, he found it more harmful to remember than to forget. Nostalgia, in and of itself, is a device of torture. It is a human weakness that allows the mind to distract itself so one can never truly be focused on anything at all. If one is always nostalgic for the past, or nostalgic for some imagined future, or in other words if one is not present - one simply does not exist. And one cannot write, if one does not exist. 

Still staring at his typewriter, cigarette long dead, Reiner leaned back and let out a simple sigh. He felt his face with the back of his left hand and concluded that he must shave, for there were a few inklings of annoyingly sharp stubble on his cheeks. He stood up and headed over to the bathroom. He entered. Washed his face. Wrapped a towel around his neck. Applied the shaving cream. And did what he had to do. Once he finished, he put on his aftershave - leading to a sharp sting along his neck. He looked up into the mirror and noticed a cut. He looked down onto the sink and recoiled at the sight of some, very small, very irrelevant, loose skin attached to his blade. Reiner looked at himself in the mirror for an unbroken 37 seconds. His distant glaring was interrupted by his telephone, ringing into an empty room. He washed his face again and clicked the machine to his ear. 

‘Reiner, we’re all at goddamn Rialtos, why don’t you come down have a fuckin’ drink!’ 

‘Who’s we, Josh?’ 

‘Well it’s uh, it’s me, it’s goddamn uh fuckin’ y’know it’s, Jeanne’s here uh Diane’s here, who else, well Pete’s here you want to say hi to Pete?’ 

‘Sure, put him on.’ 

‘Alright one second.’ 

Reiner was, frankly, bored of his apartment, and had just then, in the bathroom, looking at the mirror, been wondering about a way to get out of it. 

‘Reiner, is that you?’ 

‘Hey Pete. How ya doin.’ 

‘Be doing a lot better if you were here.’ 

‘Don’t flatter me Pete.’ 

‘Come on kiddo, just one drink, we’re at Rialtos.’ 

‘I know, Josh told me.’ 

‘What else did he tell you, come on, what.’ 

‘Well he told me you’re a communist Pete I mean -’ 

‘Shh. Don’t say it over the goddamn telephone, Jesus.’ 

‘Alright listen I’ll be there in a half hour. Is that okay?’ 

‘I reckon Josh’ll keep me here all night so yeah, that’s okay. I’ll see ya.’ 

K. Reiner gently placed the telephone in its snug resting place, then turned and paced into his front room - where, his dog, Buster, was sat ever so idly in a circular position. He nodded at Buster, who did not acknowledge him, then grabbed his coat, put on his worst pair of leather shoes - and stepped out. He felt his rightmost pocket, then gratefully let out a long sigh for he had not forgotten his cigarettes. The last time he had forgotten his cigarettes had been at his father’s funeral, he had tried to pry one off some mourners but nobody seemed in the mood for a quick smoke - perhaps it was the fact that the man in the coffin had died (God rest his soul) from a very operable case of lung cancer. Reiner had never liked that crowd anyways. 

He marched down the marbled stairs and out the briskly doors of his townhouse into a wide open street. There sat, across from him, a homeless man. He attempted to avoid eye contact but the figure waved, and Reiner nodded back. He stood for a moment, completely still, and took the air into his chest. He decided he would walk to Rialtos, the cab would’ve run him too much cash - and he’d only brought booze money anyways.     

He had not yet taken half of his first step when a voice called from behind him - 

‘Professor Reiner? Is that you?’ 

The professor, our Reiner, turned around to see a somewhat familiar, but youthful, face. He did not care for youthful faces, they reminded him that he’d once had one, and that it was always preferable to have one, even if you ‘aged well’ (no such thing, in Reiner’s eyes). 

‘Professor Reiner, it’s me, uh, George, from your lectures. I always sit in the front, y’know real upfront and I ask a lot of questions, gee I hope you don’t think I’m too annoying I just want to do well in the course y’know and you’re a fantastic teacher I just -’ 

‘I know you George.’ he replied bluntly. 

There was a moment’s silence before George, all timid and shy in form, took a deep breath, stepped forwards, and spoke. 

‘I don’t know if this is very forward of me sir but. What are you doing tonight?’

‘Well I was just heading to have some drinks with some friends.’

‘Could I come?’

‘You wouldn’t like them George, they bite.’ 

‘Well, what time will you be out?’

‘I have some other errands to run I -’ 

‘Just give me a time, please.’ 

‘Two hours.’ 

‘That’s Eight PM.’ 

‘Yes it is George.’ 

‘Can you, I mean would you like to, have a drink with me, sir, at uh at Macy’s, on Fifth, at Eight PM, if that’s not inappropriate of me to -’ 

‘I respect a boy who’s eager to learn George, I’ll be there. What was it, Macy’s you said?’ 

George was turned comatose for a second, before Reiner heartily tapped him on the shoulder, pulled out a cigarette, and went on his jolly way to Rialtos.  

K. Reiner, in all his years of walking, had never managed to ‘get’ it. He understood the function very clearly, yes, but he did not see how this could be a leisurely activity, nor did he consider it exercise in any way shape or form. As he stepped, and stepped, and stepped again - all he could think about was the fact that he would eventually have to get another pair of shoes. If it were up to him, he’d have been stitched to his desk at birth. Then again, walking was an excuse for social interaction, and as mysterious and writerly as he attempted to be - no good writer is made without social interaction. At least not often. Perhaps one day a writer could come along so individual and internalised that they reflect something entirely unique, then again - there can be no such thing. At least Reiner said he thought so, in the hopes that it would cover up his own, personal, lack of character. His biggest fear, as professor and hedonist, was the aching and inevitable realisation by all those around him, that he was nothing. In that, he was not unique. And every critical thought. And opinion. And every sweeping, swaying song of feeling. Was merely an attempt. To seem genuine. Which he was not. Reiner did not like these thoughts, and they would come to him as he walked - as they were doing just then - so, as stated, he did not like walking. 

He slowed down before this red neon sign reading, in big letters - stylish big letters - Rialtos. Reiner took a deep breath, and lit a cigarette. He spent two minutes, leaned up against a black brick wall, smoking. He’d occasionally look around; at a passerby, a piece of paper, gum, lights, cars, birds - night birds, nothing in particular, really. But he spent most of those two minutes making sure that his mind was blank, that he would not say anything in Rialtos that would delay his departure. He had a habit of getting caught up in silly arguments. It must have been in 1960 when he’d spent the week at the Farlman’s estate, simply because he refused to believe that Mr. Farlman had, at one point, eaten a Peacock. It took the ordering of a new one, its butchering, and serving - to convince Reiner of the story, but even then - he felt that Farlman’s reactions were a dead giveaway as to the fact (fact) that it was only his first time eating Peacock. It was, however, more likely for him to get lost in the winds with those rich types, they were prone to being more argumentative, or defensive - unlike his bar friends, and certainly desperately unlike Pete, who had excited Reiner by merely speaking into the telephone earlier. They had served in the war together. He liked Pete. He liked Pete very much. Reiner dropped what was left of his cigarette onto the ground and, without stepping it out, spun straight into the great Rialtos. 

The familiar smell of cheap wood doused in spilled beer made him feel a sense of home one never attributes to their real home but says that it does nonetheless. His eyes darted for a second before settling on Diane, as pretty as ever - which may seem a juvenile way of describing somebody, but her beauty could not be described in any detail more vivid, for it would turn into verbose, prose-y, rambling. Reiner had once tried to kiss her, suffice it to say things had never been quite the same between them. They were still friendly, yes, but Diane knew, not particularly deep down, that she could not reciprocate the ache he felt for her. She felt bad, yes, despite knowing that it was not her fault in any capacity. Reiner had felt something. She had not. Both had settled. Little old K waved at her from the door, she smiled back and gesturally invited him over. Her slinging red dress fell into wings beneath her arms, Reiner had always felt that there was a grandiosity to being welcomed by Diane. That you had become part of some special members club. She looked him up, then down, then up again, and without missing a beat slapped him across the back of the head. 

‘What the hell was that for?’ he jolted. 

‘Reiner, darling, you’re awfully late. Pete’s already drunk!’ 

‘I thought you of all people wouldn’t mind a little tardiness Diane, after all, isn’t being late, what, fashionable nowadays?’ 

‘Alright here we go again with the tabloid stuff I don’t -’ 

‘It’s not that Diane, I just felt that that was an unfair assault.’ 

‘Well it’s good to see you, Reiner.’ 

‘It’s good to see you too.’ 

The air between them wasn’t necessarily awkward, but there was something hanging in there, or - more so - a lack of something. Where once had been a conversational social spark was now… melted wax on a silver tin. 

‘Well where’s everybody else?’ Reiner muttered. 

‘You’re not going to believe me, but Josh managed to get the back room emptied out for the whole evening, it’s essentially ours. Only reason I’m not in there is because I was put on duty in case you showed up. Which you did. Late.’ 

‘Oh I’m sorry I imposed upon your precious room time but -’ 

‘You stink of cheap tobacco darling.’ 

‘It’s all there is.’ 

‘I could get you some nice Italian cigarettes y’know -’ she grabbed his arm and in one smooth motion began to waltz him on towards the back room ‘Why sure, they’re these fantastic Italian ones, rolled up in the mountains, you can even smoke the filter.’ 

‘You can what?’ 

‘They don’t recommend it, but you can even smoke the filter.’

‘That doesn’t -’ 

‘Here we are.’ 

Diane, leading Reiner by the tip of his finger, might as well have flown into the room - for the energy with which she was met was one of pure awe and excitement. They then noticed Reiner, whom they had invited, and felt a quick, sudden, jolt of disappointment. She let go of him and launched herself into Josh, little old Reiner was left to fend for himself. Deciding on the least explosive members as best he could, he first approached Pete. 

‘Well if it ain’t quick gun Petey.’ Reiner spoke in a put-on voice with a thick southern drawl. 

‘Reiner my goodness you’ve gotten fat. I’ve got a dietician on the phone, waiting for me at home. Would you like me to set up a meeting?’ 

‘Pete, if ever there was a ballbuster with the most fantastically classy vernacular…’ 

‘He’d beat me right on my ass.’ 

‘How the hell are ya man?’ 

‘I’m good Reiner. I’m just fine. I’ve been passing stones you know.’

‘Oh?’

‘Doctor said it’s all the liquor. So here’s to him.’ 

Pete raised his pint’s glass of brandy high into the ceiling before realising Reiner did not have a drink. His face turned sour as he bolted towards the bar and poured out the last of a bottle for his old friend. K. Reiner picked up his glass with both hands, and they toasted. 

‘Y’know Reiner I can’t remember the last time I saw you, properly I mean.’ 

‘Well we had that dinner just, what, uh -’ 

‘Three months ago.’ 

‘Jesus Christ.’ 

‘Time doth fly my friend.’ 

‘Stop being an ass.’ 

‘I thought you appreciated my manner of speech.’ 

‘I think it stinks.’ 

‘Is that K. fuckin Reiner over there?’ A roar interrupted from across the room, this booming beatnik voice belonged to none other than Josh Harroway. Reiner had first met Harroway in 1948, when both men worked at The Daily Dial - a rather cheap, sleazy newspaper that reported the important matters, such as Bing Crosby’s drunken monologues or Ingrid Bergman’s possibility as foreign intelligence. The men had gotten along just fine in Harroway’s eyes, but Reiner found him a tremendous bore. Their ideas of art, or of self expression, seemed to him wildly different - though if you were to ask Josh about that matter he’d simply nod and say ‘two sides of the same goddamn coin’. 

‘Come here Josh I want to introduce you to an asshole.’ Pete screamed back, waving his weighted arms far and wide into the room. 

‘Jesus Christ I don’t want to talk to him Pete he gets on my nerves.’ Reiner, attempting to garner up some sympathy from his friend, whispered in a puppy-dog voice. It was already too late, however, as Josh approached the two men - looming over both of them quite significantly. His height had been a medical abnormality, he could not serve in the war because the trenches simply weren’t deep enough. 

‘Fuckin, uh, listen here man. Pete here’s been telling me you’ve locked yourself into that tiny little fuckin goddamn apartment just typing away on that machine ya got. I prefer handwriting myself I don’t, I mean no offence Reiner but, I feel there’s a certain closeness to the greats when you write by hand y’know. Shakespeare wouldn’t have had a fucking typewriter, well he couldn’t have, when did that come out? The typewriter I mean. When would that have been released because fuck, what an invention, I mean I don’t use it but god-damn man is it, y’know you get your use out of it, buy less pencils and pens I guess makes ‘em fuckin cheaper for me. What do you think Pete? What’s better?’ 

Reiner’s eyes set into his head and sank back as every inkling of interest he may have had in the forthcoming evening was mechanically drained from his bloodstream by the cleanly monologue above. Pete leaned his back onto the bar and took a sip of his drink. He then leaned forwards again, sort of into Josh, and spoke. 

‘Myself, I’d rather use the typewriter.’  

As Josh began to speak again, Reiner slowly turned his gaze to the room, blocking out any noise that may have been flowing out of the foul beast’s mouth in the process. 

‘You okay Reiner?’ Pete tapped him on the shoulder. 

‘He’s fine. Listen Reiner, there’s somebody very special I want you to meet tonight he’s a -’ 

‘Yeah, yeah, I’m just going to go talk to Jeanne.’ Josh spun around at a profuse rate, as if completely gutted by Reiner’s words.

‘Oh come on, Reiner. Don’t fuckin leave just yet, I booked out this entire back room for this you can’t, I mean this is my party it’s fuckin mine man. Stay for a minute come on, how’s your fuckin new essay or whatever the fuck coming along?’ Harroway was not drunk, that was just how he spoke. It had gotten him in trouble before, because every time he’d get pulled over - the officer would hear him say three or so words and cuff him. 

‘Listen Josh, I’m very grateful for the room, and my essay is, well it’s going. But I really need to talk to Jeanne, I haven’t seen her for a while. So if you could please just, excuse me.’ 

‘Oh yeah no trouble man, just, I’ll stay here with Pete, ol’ fuckin Pete huh, I’ll stick around with him and you go off and get your hands on my woman and -’ 

‘Woah woah woah Josh what are you talking about?’ Pete stepped in closer.

‘He wants to fuck Jeanne I know it.’ Josh, unlike his normal self, sounded serious. 

‘Listen Josh, I don’t want anything of the sort, I just want to talk to my friend.’ 

‘We all know how you are with women Reiner, it’s no fucking surprise, you’re some fucking sick leech, what’s the, what’s the male word for nympho?’ 

‘You’re over the line Josh.’ Pete, defensive, put his hand on Harroway’s chest. 

‘Okay maybe I fuckin am, but we all know about Diane, and I just, I don’t want you thinking that every fucking thing you see is yours. Because it’s not.’

‘So is it yours then Josh?’ Reiner spoke timidly. 

‘No, man, no. Nobody belongs to anybody, nobody owes you shit. Not even a fuckin conversation. I don’t know why I called you over. Go talk to Jeanne. I’m sure she’ll enjoy the company. You fuck.’ Josh slowly turned and stumbled to the other end of the bar, where he struck up a dialogue with the seemingly rather melancholic barman.  

‘What the hell was that about Pete?’ K. seemed more disappointed than angry in that statement, but he couldn’t particularly place the reason why. He didn’t like Josh, he never had, maybe it was that Josh had caught on that Reiner didn’t like him. Perhaps hatred only ever goes one way. Or rather, we’d prefer it to do so. 

‘I don’t know. I’ll talk to him. We all want you here Reiner. I want you to know that. You go on, talk to Jeanne, leave if you’re uncomfortable but y’know. We invited you.’ Pete had a way of delivering things with the utmost assurance, there was no doubt in his voice. Reiner nodded and began to pace steadily to the other end of the room. He felt odd, however, Pete seemed annoyed with him, somewhat, and he was unsure as to why. But he left anyways, without opening that discussion up for board. 

‘Jeanne!’ he exclaimed, naturally with a little hint of joy in his voice. After all, Jeanne was always a pleasure to see. They had first met an odd 15 or so years ago, it must have been 1952. Reiner had just begun to write independently; she was a manager at a local theater he often visited. Reiner, in the space of 8 months, typed himself out a one act play. He had never much liked it, but he had seen glimpses of Jeanne at the theater, and he did desperately want a way to work at that theater, or, really, to work with her. He had submitted the play to the theater’s yearly independent production competition, and - to his surprise - won. They agreed to put on the show. It was around that time, however, Jeanne’s mother back in Illinois had fallen ill. And she temporarily, for the entire run of Reiner’s play, left her position. It was upon her return a few months later that he finally chalked up the courage to talk to her, plain and simple. They had gotten along well, went on a few dates, but K. Reiner never was a man that could help himself. He’d have slept with a cantaloupe if it had tits. So, things fell apart - as they do - and they found themselves at an impasse of no communication for three or so years. It was only when she began to date Josh Harroway did they truly rekindle any semblance of human connection, and as time passed, and feelings grew less tightly wound, they found themselves in the oh-so wonderful state, of being good friends.  

‘Mister Reiner is that you?’ she threw herself back and forwards, launching directly into an old acquaintance's hug. They embraced fully, then pulled away, and holding each other by their shoulders, looked up and down at one another. Jeanne smiled, Reiner did his best to return the gesture. Both sighed, simultaneously, then laughed. 

‘How have you been Jeanne? Josh isn’t treating you too bad I hope.’ 

‘Oh I’m swell Reiner, I’m just swell. How’s Buster?’ 

‘He’s good, last I checked he was still asleep.’ 

‘If I wasn’t allergic to dogs I’d have stolen him off you by now.’ 

‘Feel free if you get the chance.’ They laughed again. 

‘How’s that new essay going? Josh was talking about it on the way here, apparently you’re straying from your lectures or something - revitalising all your research, tracking back, big words from Mister Harroway.’ 

‘Your husband.’ 

‘Well yeah, Mister and Missus Harroway. But come on, what is it?’ 

‘It’s a bunch of bull is what it is Jeanne, I’m planning to burn the whole thing tonight the very second I get home. I just, I can’t do it. The critics were right, I’m mechanical.’ 

‘Oh whoever said that has never heard you sing.’ 

‘When in the hell did you hear me sing?’ 

‘You don’t remember, Lynda’s 40th, 1965?’ Of course Reiner remembered exactly what she was referring to, a birthday party in which he’d gotten so drunk that he’d ended up on top of a Steinway piano - shirt and trousers off - blasting his rendition of Unchained Melody - but he would never admit to that. Especially not tonight. 

‘I can’t say that I do Jeanne. I’m very sorry’

‘Well it was great, you’ve got a pretty good voice you know. There’s something… well… surprisingly sweet about it. Something warm that you don’t really -’ 

‘Alright that’s enough. Hey who’s that?’ Reiner pointed to the leftmost wall, where an oddly slinky looking man rested against a stool with two cigarettes burning in his mouth. It was clear from the length of the cigarettes that they were both for him, and that he had not lit one for somebody else. Jeanne giggled to herself, then lightly pushed Reiner’s finger back down. ‘That’s Dick Ruben.’ 

‘The critic? Dick Ruben? From the goddamn New Yorker?’ 

‘Yeah. How do you know him?’ Jeanne let out a self satisfied smirk and twirled in her place. 

‘He’s the sonofabitch that called me an artless hack. He’s the goddamn critic that’s got me - holy shit, what are the odds. Why is he here? Does he know Josh? Why is he here?’ 

‘I’m actually not sure, I think Pete invited him, but I can call him over if you want.’ 

 ‘Please. Please go ahead Jeanne, call him over. Hold me back if you need to.’ They laughed again, then Jeanne turned and whistled across the room, to which Dick Ruben shot up - startled - she waved at him to come over, so he did. 

‘Milady. Sir. How do you do?’ Reiner was taken aback by how shrewd this man’s voice was, there was no rasp, no edge, not a glimpse of years lived, one couldn’t even smell the cigarettes that hung loosely from his slender lips. There was an odd air to the man, almost inhuman, as if his critical nature had somehow managed to best his emotional flair. Jeanne gave him a good-enough hug, Reiner ignored his handshake. 

‘My name is Dick Ruben, and I know Jeanne here -’ he proudly guffawed to himself. ‘But I’m not so sure we’ve met, who might you be?’ he glared intensely at Reiner with a mocking grin slapped across his boyish face. Reiner took a deep breath, then loudly stated - 

‘I’m K. Reiner, I write. Are you perchance uh, y’know, familiar with my work? Seeing as how you’re a critic and all, well that’s what Jeanne said but I don’t know to what capacity, maybe you review restaurants - is that why you’re here? To review the bar?’ There was a long, dry, silence, during which Reiner got to sit in his own junk. After a few seconds, Ruben turned to Jeanne - laughed, then turned back to our professor with a sickly gulp. 

‘I am a critic, a literary critic, and yes Mister Reiner I’m aware of your works. Though I cannot say that I am too big on them. They’re not for me.’ 

‘I like them.’ Jeanne said quickly, trying to move past the embarrassment of the situation. 

‘Well if they’re not for you Dick, do you mind if I call you Dick, Dick?’ Ruben shook his head. ‘If they’re not for you, mister hailed art critic, who are they for? To which audience would you recommend my texts, if any?’ 

‘Ah well there we go Mr Reiner, if any. I must say I simply do not enjoy the way you put words together, I find it a tremendous bore. Your ideas are certainly interesting, but only to a singular class of people. Us. Mr Reiner. You write for us. The middle, the upper, the upper middle. The educated man, the independent woman. You do not write for people Mr Reiner, you write for yourself. I do not mean to criticise your character, and you certainly seem less mechanical face to face, but I just cannot get behind this sort of… pompous, privileged, dishonest writing. Irony, in the way in which you use it, is a farce. And to that end, when your entire essay rests on said irony, the essay becomes a farce. A critical paper, written by a child - is what it seems like. At least for me, but who am I to say? Right, Mr Reiner?’  

By this point, the entire room had gone awfully quiet. There was not a single drunken peep to be heard from any single body. After a good beat or so, from across the room, Josh Harroway let out a big chortle. Him and Pete had clearly had a few more to drink since the short time in which Reiner had left them. The two men pushed past Diane, and other party guests, and approached where Dick Ruben had just laid his feelings. 

‘Well fuckin say something. Goddamn Reiner. Fucking speak.’ Josh demanded, every word enunciated with more anger than the last. Jeanne rolled her shoulder back and looked at Josh. ‘Why is this man here Josh? What is this some sort of humiliation ritual I mean -’ 

‘It’s okay Jeanne, it’s a free party, the man’s allowed to give an opinion.’ Reiner spoke calmly, but without meaning. 

‘Well what did he say Reiner? You want me to slug him? Or can you do it yourself big boy?’ Pete laughed, then looked behind him at the bar, and looked back at the group in front of him. He locked eyes with Reiner, and felt - suddenly - an urge to be distant. To win. 

‘You know, I heard some of what you said actually, about uh, the class -’ 

‘The class of people that Mr Reiner here writes for, yes.’ Ruben interrupted gleefully. 

‘Well yeah…’ Pete continued ‘See I, I’ve read everything he’s done, seen a lecture or two but uh more than, more than both of those things I’ve spent a lot of time with this man.’ Reiner patted Pete on the shoulder, in anticipated appreciation. Pete pulled back. Away from him. ‘Well see I, I’ve seen him talk to people, about what inspires his work. About the struggles. And I see him, introduce me to people. We served together. That’s what he says.’ 

‘Pete what the fuck are you talking about?’ Josh, bored, jumped in. 

‘Let him keep talking, Jesus.’ Jeanne threw back. Pete collected himself, clearly too drunk to properly stand - he was somewhat leaning on Ruben, who seemed to be finding great difficulty in taking Pete’s booze surplussed weight. 

‘Listen I just, Reiner I care about you, and Josh is an asshole, but I can’t just. I’m happy for you that you’re a writer and all but goddammit why do you keep lying to everybody? What is this? I mean. We served together. Bullshit. I never saw you pick up a goddamn gun in your life. Do they know? You were -’ 

‘That’s enough Pete. That’s enough.’ 

‘Shut up Reiner.’ Josh pushed him back with his palm. Reiner’s eyes began to shoot around. ‘Go on Pete. Go on.’ Josh encouraged him. 

‘Dishonourably discharged, desertion at the post. You left me there. I’ve stayed with you Reiner, this whole goddamn time, and I love you man, I really do, but Mr Ruben here is right. You only write for one class of person. The class who. Goddammit. Who wants to suffer. Because they don’t know what real suffering is. That’s you Reiner, and I love you, I really do, you’re like a brother to me but… just because you’re a writer doesn’t mean you get to write your life. You don’t choose that. You don’t have an editor. Maybe that’s why it comes off as mechanical to the critics here. Because it’s not true. It’s regurgitated. From me. From Diane. From stupid bullshit New Yorker articles, no offence Mr Ruben. I don’t know. I love you man but. I don’t know if I’ve ever met you. Jesus. Wait. I - I think I’m going to be sick.’ He suddenly froze in place, then turned his back and let his insides soar onto the wooden floor. 

Josh went straight to helping him, Jeanne stood - sadly staring at Reiner. She touched his shoulder, firmly, and gave an apologetic look - as if she’d done it herself. Then again, she may have had more of a ‘get out of here’ expression, but to Reiner it would have all been the same anyways. Dick Ruben stood still, happy, content that his criticism was, on the human level, somewhat correct. There was a stillness in the room, it was as if the music had stopped, and all that could be heard was Pete gagging and choking. Reiner felt his head turn to look one way, then the other, his eyes had rolled back into their sockets, and his breath had settled a little bit. He took two steps towards Ruben, then spat on his shoe. 

Diane slowly walked over to the commotion, then held Reiner’s back, and led him out of the room. From afar, they could hear Dick Ruben mumbling to himself - the article forming in his chubby brain - ‘Why don’t you go write about it then…’ he repeated. 

‘What happened?’ Diane asked. 

‘I think I. I’m going to go see Danny.’ 

‘Oh?’ 

‘Yeah. I’m going to go see Danny.’ 

‘How is he?’ 

‘Thank you Diane, tell Pete I’ll call him.’ 

Obtusely dropping her hand, Reiner let himself out of the bar. Rialtos’ big red sign had become dimmer, maybe they were trying to save on the energy bill. He took a breath, then picked out a cigarette from his silver case - which had been gifted to him by Pete after the war - and lit it with such a burning, bitter, sadness that it took the flame a whole ten seconds to even warm up the thing. He checked his watch. Six fifty three. He wandered out onto the street and, for twelve minutes, tried to hail a cab. 

When one finally did pull over, he looked back - for a second - at Rialtos, and saw Diane, sat at the front bar, all by herself. It made him happy. To know, not that there were people in the world as miserable or lonely as him, but that somebody else couldn’t stand being in that room with those people for another God forsaken minute. He stepped into the cab.

After giving the directions, Reiner spent the rest of the ride in silence. Staring out the window. Trying, desperately, to think. But his mind stayed blank. And there he sat, unsurprised and unenthused, waiting for the cab to let him off. The car stopped at a light, and out on the street - alone - Reiner saw an old man with an empty buggy. He chuckled at the image. Then looked closer, and saw that the man was asleep. Before he could investigate further, the cab moved on up, and before he could get another breath in, he’d arrived. 

‘Good night sir.’ said the cabbie. 

‘Uh. Thank you. Good night.’ replied Reiner, before stepping out onto the breezy curb, and looking up as far as the night sky to see Danny’s window, lights on. He rang the doorbell, waited for the buzz, and headed up. 

K. Reiner had journeyed through these townhouse stairs at least once a month, every month, for the past few years, on account of Danny’s accident, but he realised that - until tonight - he had, not once, paid attention to, or even remotely acknowledged, the patterns on the walls. Every end of the stairwell was doused in these small tiles, made up of six different squares: the tile itself, the four red ones that resided in each corner; and the central, navy blue, square, which centred the piece. Reiner wasn’t particularly blown away by this discovery, nor was he surprised to find out that an older building like this would have such oddly vague designs, but he was somewhat appreciative of the fact that tonight - he could look around, and see them. There was a modernity to them that he’d despise in any other setting, the Andy Warhols and such, but the stillness of the image, the simplicity of those squares as his gaze moved upwards past each tile, was hypnotic. As he moved further on up through the building, nearing Danny’s door, Reiner could feel his heart moving up his chest, into his throat, and finally to the back of his mouth. He recalled Pete’s episode earlier that night. Reiner felt, in the most deeply upsetting fashion possible, that he was about to throw up his heart. 

As he finally arrived at the forsaken door, he was surprised to see the thing already open, swinging slightly, waiting for him to enter - which he did so, slowly. Reiner glared at the face of a clock hung loosely on the wall, then moved his eyes through the room; past the ornate paintings of olden orgies, the shelves of dusted books and records, and onto, finally, a single, leatherbound, sofa - rested idly in the centre of the room, facing a blocked off fireplace, on top of which was a family portrait, in which not a single person - and especially not Reiner himself - looked even slightly happy. Sat on the sofa was Sally. She did not turn to meet his gaze, and drank her whiskey with a wavy tension in her wrist. Reiner closed the door behind him, the gust off which deployed specks of dust and ash into the humid air. He never knew how to start a conversation with Sally, he was slightly afraid of her, and unlike every other woman in his life - he’d never pictured sleeping with her, which - as revealing as it may be of Reiner’s character, should come as no surprise to anybody. 

‘How are you Sally?’ Reiner mumbled, fingers twiddling under his shrinking figure. She sighed, then took another sip of her drink, and sighed again. Reiner took four more steps towards her, and muttered his question one more time. Sally, turned with an annoyed glint in her eye. Then stood up. And walked over and past him. She approached the bar, where she spent a good minute eyeing every single bottle that was in stock, before refilling her glass with what seemed to be the exact same whiskey as what she’d already been having. 

‘I’m fine Kelly. I’m just fine.’ Her tone was stern, her voice heavy. Every word took more breaths than it would have for the average person. 

‘I’m sorry I’m a little late, the cab was -’ 

‘That’s okay. He’s not going anywhere.’ 

‘How is he? Has he spoken yet?’ 

‘You’d be the first person I would call.’ 

‘Well how is he Sally?’ 

‘He’s dead, Kelly. I mean that’s all there is to it. He’s breathing, his eyes are open, I feed him, I clean him, but there’s nobody there. Your brother’s gone. Has been.’ 

‘You don’t mean that.’ Reiner defensively cried. 

‘I don’t. No you’re right. I don’t.’ 

‘Listen Sally I, we’re family, I know I haven’t been the greatest help these last few years but, I’d like to be. I’d like to help. If there’s anything I can do please just -’ 

‘I’ve heard that from every single person in your family Kelly.’ 

‘Well he’s our brother.’ 

‘I know that. So why don’t you… treat him that way.’ 

‘I want to know how you are Sally. I’m going to talk to Danny tonight. I know that but. Just please speak to me. Say something other than fine. I want to help.’ Sally picked up a second glass - one she had gotten as a gift from Reiner’s father for her wedding day; well, it was more of a gift for Danny, he was always the boozier of the two, but she had recently found herself making more use of the slender tinted glass than either of them ever had during their conscious marriage - and poured a drink for her guest. 

‘No offence Kelly but I don’t want to talk to you about my personal matters.’ she shoved the glass into his hands, making him stumble a few inches in the process. ‘Frankly I don’t even want you in here. It’s nothing personal. But I’m used to being alone, and, someone like you just - disrupts that. You must make yourself known. The door was open for a reason. Talk to your brother, hand me back your glass when you’re done, and leave. Okay?’ 

Reiner nodded, offended - sure - but understanding nonetheless. 

He marched, steadily, towards his brother’s room. The hallway felt longer than it ever had before, as if the walls by some impure thought had begun to melt into dry crackling ash. He stopped in front of a painting, carelessly thrown on the wall. It was a portrait his mother had drawn, of all the men in her family. He was there, as a baby no less. Reiner had seen that painting a million odd times, it was a family achievement, they were proud of it - but he had never considered the emotions under which his mother had made it. There he was, crying. His brothers were all lined up, soldier-like, with expressions so soulless, and still, that if one did not know who they were, one might consider them statues. Then, there, above them all, was his father. Reiner had never really met his father. Well, he had, but never personally. Or, never conversationally. And in that image, he saw a man he did not recognise. Someone who had clearly made, defined, and shaped him in many a subconscious way - but he recognised only his posture. Skeletal. Sad. Perhaps he should have married somebody else, for if Reiner’s mother was truly the love of this lightless man’s life - he must have never told her. 

Some flickering lights had been propped up outside Danny’s door, taped across the ceiling. Reiner looked at them, all solemn and seriousfaced, then took a gulp of whiskey. 

‘I’m coming in Danny.’ He said, in a low down quiet tone. Whether or not he actually wanted to announce himself, or simply be able to say that he did, was unclear even to him. Reiner entered, then sat in the single - wooden - chair that resided next to Danny’s king size bed. Danny, though stuck in position, was well shaven, and seemed in good spirits - despite the fact that his facial muscles had not worked since his accident. Reiner expected his brother’s eyes to slide down his face and attempt to look to the side, but they stayed stationary, staring into the ceiling as they had done before, and would do after K's arrival. 

For a minute or so the room fell into a rhythmic silence. Reiner simply looked past his brother, blurring him out in vision. He had practiced what he’d say to him, but he could not shake this sickening feeling of wrongness. The room seemed only to get quieter, so much so that Reiner began to hear his organs churning under his skin. He looked around once more, took a large sip of his whiskey - finishing it - then leaned into the bed with his elbows. 

‘You look well.’ he stuttered. ‘Yeah. You look real well Danny. I wish mother could see you, in better spirits I mean. I’m sure when you see her again she’ll be surprised you’re not still mangled. Y’know. Maybe that’s in bad taste. Jesus. You want to know something Danny? I think I got invited to a humiliation ritual tonight. Can you believe it? I’ve made it! I mean there must be something worth humiliating right because they just. Josh invited this goddamn literary critic, Dick Ruben, who hates my work - and he got Pete all riled up and Jeanne all riled up, Diane is the only asshole with any sense of self worth in that place. I know. I know. I gotta stop thinking about Diane. I have. I have. There’s not that much to think about. No sir. With all these women, Sally too, there’s really not that much to think about. That’s why I don’t write women. Well you wouldn’t know I haven’t really been able to - publish the fiction stuff. Can you still read? Ah I don’t know. But I got this new essay coming along. About the self. What do you know about the self Danny? I mean, all you do is sit there right. That’s a lot of time to think, and well, I guess you don’t see much of the outside world neither so what else do you have to think about but your own condition? Your own state. I remember when the doctors said the word catatonic. You should have seen Sally’s face. That’s the only time I ever felt bad for her, because of you Danny. You always had a way of bringing people together. Mom would agree. I remember, what was it, 1954 - when the church held that big ugly extravaganza in the street and everybody was sweaty and pissed off and wanted nothing, I mean nothing, to do with God or his holier than thou bullshit. Then you broke that hydrant, remember? Everybody ran into it. The Reverend got all wet. Then you started singing. Holy shit! You started singing Danny. It wasn’t great, I gotta be honest. But people joined in. And they laughed. And ran around. And by nightfall everybody on that street owed you a day. Do you remember that? I do. What do you want, Danny? You want water? I can get you water. Sally doesn’t want me here. Too bad. No, really, too bad. Because you’re my brother and I’m going to see you goddammit that’s my right, it’s my duty. Well…’ Reiner leaned back, his chest heavy, his forehead beginning to sweat. ‘It’s my duty now. I’ve just been so busy. You know how it is with the publishers. Deadlines. Deadlines. God damn deadlines. But I’m here now. Do you want me to be Danny? Listen I’m - I’m sorry I haven’t helped so much. I’ve seen you a lot. I know that yeah but - I just. I look at you Danny and I don’t know what to think. I mean. You’re a fucking vegetable. And it’s not just that either. Maybe it’s the whole family, but I look at every single one of you and I just. I’m surprised we’re of the same place. You must understand. Right? I mean it’s not. I think I could love you. I think I could. I’m sure I loved mom, I must have. But I could love you too Danny. I’ll be here, day after day, and I’ll prove it. I’ll prove myself. But. I. I don’t mean to be so blunt about it. But would you want me to?’ Danny’s finger twitched, but Reiner - too caught up in himself - didn’t notice. ‘Would you want me to love you Danny? I’m sure I could. God damn it. Everybody else did. You were the big brother, the big star, the big fucking son. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. Listen though. Listen to me for a second. I just. Something’s happening to me Danny. And I’ve realised that there’s just certain things you can’t keep in. Not forever. I need to. I need to love somebody. I need to. It’s. You’ve got Sally. She’s got you. Who the hell do I have? I mean. I could love you Danny, I should, but I just, I mean, how does this work huh? Can you answer me? Can you tell me what you want? Would you, Danny? Would you want me to love you? God damn you. Answer me. Answer me Danny. Do you want me to love you? Answer me! Jesus Christ Danny, answer me!’ Reiner shot himself up out of his seat, and launched into the bed, grabbing his brother by both shoulders and shaking him. ‘Goddamn you! Goddamn you you prick answer me!’

Sally barged into the room, running over to Reiner as if he were a rabid animal - and wrestled him off the bed and onto the cold wooden ground. She hit him across the face with a determination and anger that clearly had been needing an outlet of some sort. 

‘Get a grip Kelly. Get a grip.’ She sounded disappointed. Reiner looked up, then down, and up again. He saw Danny on the bed. And Sally atop. He saw a mirror on the other side of the room, so dirty and shallow that in it there was nothing. He took a breath, and relaxed. 

Sally jumped to her feet, then went straight to Danny to see if he was okay. Reiner remained on the ground for a few seconds, then stood. Spectrally. His mouth began to jitter, his eyes began to swell, and he felt that the aching thumping pain in his chest had begun to fade. 

‘I’m sorry Sally. I’m so sorry. I just wanted to help.’ She ignored him. ‘Listen Sally it’s all fine, everything’s fine, there’s just -’ 

‘I know Kelly. I understand. It’s not your fault. It’s just what you do. It’s what all you Reiner men do. Everything surrounds you, we can’t exist without you. Is that it? Do you need that much reassurance as to your existence? Jesus. You’re sick. I heard you talking to him, and you know something Kelly?’ He nodded, as if telling her to go ahead. 

‘You cannot love, or let yourself be loved by anybody that is worse than you. I think you’re convinced of some great fact that you’re better than everybody. There’s nobody out there for you, you’ve decided that. Don’t fucking moan about it. And don’t kill Danny over it either.’

‘Sally, Sally listen I -’ 

‘Leave. Please just leave.’ Reiner checked his watch, seven forty four, embarrassingly - he stepped towards Sally once more and asked - 

‘Is Macy’s down this block?’ 

‘What?’ 

‘Macy’s. The bar. Is it down this block?’ 

‘It’s just straight to the right for fifteen minutes.’ 

‘Thanks Sally.’ And with that, he left. 

The night had turned a pitch black sort of dark, despite it only being eight in the evening. Reiner walked stiffly down the road, his shoes trudging every step, he had an unlit cigarette in his mouth. Sat tightly. His eyes remained on the floor, on the passing image of concrete as some continuous never-ending slab. He had always had a specific attraction to concrete. To its dullness. It looked so weightless from close-up, but the further and further you’d move away - the heavier it would get. 

He remained in this state until finally reaching Macy’s. It was eight oh three, Reiner glimpsed through the large glass panels and saw his student, George, sitting at the bar, waiting. He took himself a moment to consider this. And that. And this again. He spat the unlit cigarette onto the ground, and opened wide the windless entrance. 

‘George!’ he called out impatiently. The boy, upon seeing his professor, lit up into this tremendous euphoria. He lunged forwards and stuck his hand out, to which Reiner replied with a firm, manly, handshake. The two mumbled general niceties and settled into a booth in the corner of the bar. Both men ordered their drinks, then sat aloof. 

‘Professor I can’t thank you enough for doing this. Coming out.’ 

‘Nonsense. It’s on my way home.’ he hit his drink back. 

‘Well I -’ 

‘What was it you wanted to talk to me about? The curriculum? Because goddamn Henry for putting that godawful textbook in my classroom.’ 

‘No sir I just.’ 

‘He thinks I don’t know Yeates? I’ve practically lived in Yeates.’ 

‘I just wanted to talk to you sir, to get to know you.’ 

‘What do you mean George?’ 

‘Well I, I sit in the front of your class. And it’s not that I don’t love literature and philosophy and all that jazz but, well I just feel that it’s you, sir, that draws me to that classroom. I want to know more about you. Was that too frank?’ The boy stopped in his tracks, and gagged on his words for a second, then Reiner adjusted himself and said - 

‘George. I’m flattered. What do you want to know?’ Both men laughed at that response, and as Reiner called the waiter over to top up his drink, George began to get his questions ready. 

‘Why do you write, sir?’ 

‘Why do I write?’ 

‘Yes.’ 

‘Well George I, I suppose there’s nothing else to do. Certainly not in my position.’ 

‘Which is?’ 

‘Privileged. George. Privileged.’ 

‘In what sense?’ 

‘Born into a well off family, a loving family, well I just - I’m repeating myself.’ 

‘Sorry?’ 

‘My new essay, there’s a passage that reads exactly like this.’ 

‘Your new essay? Oh. May I ask what it’s about?’ 

‘Sure George. Sure. It’s about the self.’ 

‘Your self?’ 

‘In parts. Otherwise I guess it might just as well be about you, or that man there, or that woman with the -’ Reiner froze, as he noticed an elegant young lady perched beautifully on a red leather stool. He could practically smell her. 

‘Like me, sir?’ 

‘Yes George. Like you. But what kind of student are you anyways George, I mean you’ve got the pair to ask your professor for a drink, it can’t be your first rodeo.’ 

‘I did a year abroad, sir.’ 

‘Stop with the sir, alright, call me Kelly.’ 

‘Uh. Okay Kelly. I did a year abroad in France.’ 

‘I never liked the French. Pompous.’ 

‘I quite liked it there. They’re far less conservative about the arts.’ 

‘You think we’re conservative about the arts? We’ve got assholes like Warhol running around and you think we’re conservative about the arts?’ 

‘Well precisely sir, uh Kelly - Warhol is a product of the conservative system we’ve got laid out. His rebellion only goes so far as to inspire buyers, not revolutionaries.’ 

‘You’re a smart kid George. What are you doing at our school?’ 

‘It’s you, sir, like I said.’ 

‘Call me Kelly.’ 

‘It’s you Kelly, I only come to the lectures to watch you speak. There’s just something so extraordinary about it. Like I can’t describe.’ 

‘Y’know George, after the night I’ve had I think I really needed this.’ 

‘Me too sir, me too. May I ask why, for you, though?’ 

‘Everybody fancies themselves a critic, or a psychiatrist. They’re all assholes, that’s what they are. If you take one lesson from me George let it be that everybody’s an ass. Even you.’ 

‘I’m afraid that sounds like drivel to me sir.’ 

‘Call me Kelly.’ 

‘It’s an unnecessary thought process Kelly, you and I wouldn’t be here if everybody was an asshole. We, us, I mean, we’d be long dead if everybody was an asshole.’ To this, K. Reiner had nothing of substance to say. He had simply believed it to be true for as long as he had lived that there was to be very little goodness found in the human race. And he was not about to have his mind changed by some pubescent boy barely old enough to hack his drink. 

‘What’s so interesting about me George? Tell me.’ 

‘Well I - I suppose you’re nice.’ 

‘Come on, that’s not enough. Tell me. What you think of me.’ 

‘Sir I -’ 

‘Call me Kelly, Jesus Christ.’ 

‘Sir, I really couldn’t say I mean -’ George was suddenly interrupted by the booming hum of the jukebox starting up, its buzz electrifying the room with an instant excitement. Everybody tuned in, waiting for the music. As the slowly rhythm of a piano spread through the walls, George grinned, and Reiner chuckled to himself. 

‘It’s Johnny Ace, sir.’

‘The clock.’ 

‘You’re a fan?’ 

‘Well George I, I suppose I am.’ There was a second of thought between the two men before George stood up and held his hand out towards Reiner. 

‘Would you like to dance, Kelly?’ Reiner looked to see if he recognised anybody in the bar, but everyone’s faces had sunk - already - into their partners. 

‘Yes I would George.’ He stood up, taking the boy's hand, and right next to their booth, in the dim warm lights of Macy’s regretful bar - they swayed together. 

Reiner held George’s hand with his left, and his right rested lightly on the boy’s hip. With every second of the song that passed, they stepped nearer together. The initial awkwardness melted away, and there came this bizarre, wonderful, closeness. George looked up, then began to lower his head into Reiner’s shoulder. 

‘Don’t fall through it.’ The professor muttered. 

As the song came to a close, Reiner began to comb the room - noticing that people were pulling away, and that one could see them across the bar. He slowly nudged George off himself, and held him by the shoulders with a firm stance. Fatherlike. They remained in that position for an unbroken 37 seconds. George’s eyes closed, and he kissed Reiner. 

The boy pulled away. Waiting for a response. Reiner frowned, then kissed the boy back. They separated. Reiner took his hands off George’s shoulders, then tightened his tie, and fixed his blazer. He turned around, grabbed his coat, and began to walk away. 

‘Uh. Professor. Sir.’ Reiner looked back. ‘I think you need a shave.’ George, all happy with himself, sank right back into the booth, and enjoyed the rest of his evening. 

Kelly Reiner, finally alone, exited the bar with a certain fearful swiftness. He picked up the cigarette he had dropped earlier, and had a completely uneventful walk home. At least in the physical sense. In thoughts, he believed himself to have found the meaning of his latest essay, or at least why he had chosen to write it, and he had found - on that same path - the next sentence that he would write. 

He entered his lightless home, and saw Buster still resting exactly where he had left him. He dropped his coat, took his shoes off - then brushed his teeth and put on his nightwear. Reiner sat almost instantly, after all the natural checks, at his desk, and began to type. 

‘‘One must first accept the fact that the words ‘something’ and ‘somebody’ hold no weight, one must then understand what this means, which is to say, one must muster up the courage, and the fear, to look past oneself and see absolutely noth-’’ 

As he typed at a sluggish pace, old Buster waddled up to Reiner, and scratched his leg. Reiner looked down, then disappointedly realised he had a duty to perform. He got off his seat, and grabbed Buster’s lead. Then put on his shoes, got his cigarette case, and just as he was to exit - his telephone rang. Reiner and Buster walked over to it, and Reiner picked up. 

‘Hello?’ 

‘It’s me. Pete.’ There was a pause. ‘Listen. I’m sorry Reiner.’ 

‘I’m just taking Buster out for a walk Pete, can I call you back?’ 

‘Oh. Oh sure. That’s a shame. Yeah sure I -’ 

He hung up. 

K. Reiner, accompanied by Buster, walked out onto the cold, empty, road. He stood there; utterly still, unfeeling, incomplete. As the dog finished his business, a light breeze swept through the street. Taking with it, a strange weight. Once the wind had passed far - and through - Buster was left all alone, with an empty pile of clothes, and a single, silver, cigarette case.