Home Table of Contents Past Issues Biographies of Contributors General Information Comments
 


Me and Doug Last Friday - Christa St. Peter

    Lonely, lonesome, alone, she drifted with neither purpose nor destination - somehow floating yet dreadfully heavy. He saw her and asked her what she was doing. "Suffering," she said. He asked her if she'd join him for a drink and talk about it, and she accepted. And they sat and they drank and the conversation flowed, and soon it was gushing from her, it burst from her in a torrent - theater, music, literature, girlfriends, boyfriends, failures, death and reincarnation, and pain, pain, dull and maddening, pain from being so alone, so solitary in the midst of so much and so many. "Sometimes I think that I'm about to disappear," she said. But she had lightened, she was radiant. Her relief was evident, and his infatuation turned hope diffused through him - he bathed in it. He asked if he could see her again. "No," she said, "I've told you all my secrets."