My murderous intent


My once snug jacket hangs on my slim shoulders like poorly fitted curtains.

Still, she says I look fine.

She doesnít see me.

She floats ahead of me into the hall and down a memory lane I canít share

She has come to say farewell to all the friends she made a college.

I cling to her shoulder like a crutch.

I envy her.

I am the perpetual dropout, the lost soul who doesnít fit in with any civilized society, needing only cowboy boots, spurs and a long ride into the sunset to feel remotely comfortable.

She forgets me.

I hang back looking out the window at the dark and the parade of cars that streams along the riverside road, headlights like eyes, the people inside each vehicle invisible as if simply parts of a watch.

The swish of tires on the wet pavement like the ticks of time passing. I count each despite my promise to her to remain social.

Her shrill laugh, her uncaring air, stirs up something in me as if mixing inside me the ingredients of an explosion.

Jealous rages

I cannot wait for the moment when we are alone, in the car on the way home where I can take out my rage on her.

I know that when we get home I am going to stick a kitchen knife in her heart.

But I ticking so fast Iím scared I wonít make it to the car or home, and that I might do something foolish in front of somebody.

I find my fingers inching towards a steak knife on the buffet table.

ďA penny for your thoughts,Ē she says, easing close to me while still in the company of her male friends from her days at school.

In my mind her body hits the floor even before her smile fades.

I nod. I says Iím having a good time.

She wanders off, already oblivious to the ticking, ticking, ticking going on inside my head.



monologue menu

Main Menu

email to Al Sullivan