More improving-ment

             I am getting better at revising these things.  It's not good, but atleast some of it makes sense.  I might revise that first novel type of thing I wrote last November and make it make sense, eventually.  But overall I think my stories at the very least make more sense now.

         

He had atleast through the end of the month, he thought.  Her father had paid the security deposit and the first month of rent, and before she became “exasperated” and “artistically compromised” (the words he was sure she would use), he would have to make things good again.  His funds which were set aside for graduate school were going to be spent on many nights on the town, going dancing.  Her costume would change completely for dancing, she was suddenly ostensibly a dancer again.

He weighed the option of leaving her first in his mind.  In an episode of Seinfeld, George leaves a woman who he feels is going to break up with him before she can.  It works out pretty well, but it doesn’t work as a metaphor in this situation he realizes because first of all their isn’t much continuity on Seinfeld, and secondly George never keeps the same girlfriend for more than a few episodes.

His eyelids peeled back like they were glued together in the middle and he caught himself in one of those half asleep half dreaming moments.  If he really wanted to stay awake in this situation, he knew someone would have to slap him in the face.  He tried to slap himself, but his hands were like big wobbily wands.  Or, he could stand up.  The rows of seats went on endlessly, and in his stupor it seemed like everyone was sharing casual intimate conversations.  It was like one of those mirror rooms.  The darkened cabin drew attention to the row of lights on both sides of the aisle, which looked a lot like night lights.

The luggage was supposed to meet him at the house later that night, and like in the movies he asked if the movers would mind starting without him.  Luckily, he didn’t realize how often his plans of action were based on things he saw in the movies.  They said they needed a key to do that, and Carlo told them to talk to the owner.  They said it would cost extra, and he agreed although he could already see his nest egg steadily shrinking.  After the plane tickets, the Bruce Springsteen concert they had went to the night before, the steak restaurant they went to, the hotel reservations.

The house was a little bungalow on a flat stretch of land, it looked like nothing more than four walls from the outside.  Carlo had a collection of pictures of houses that he hadn’t actually seen on his computer, to make it look like he had done more investigation.  In reality, he had decided on the first house before giving any others much thought.  The selling point was a backyard that featured an enormous oak tree and an area which he thought he would convert into a garden. The yard needed a lot of weeding and fixing up, or so he ascertained from the satellite photos.  He imagined himself and Belinda in an idyllic, romantic Sunday morning, tearing hands full of the yellowest dandelions from the ground and throwing them into a wheelbarrow.  And then maybe having sex in a hammock or something.  He looked over again, and the way she was sitting did that thing where her chin disappears into her neck.  There was that lump on her neck again, he shook his head.  She refused to get it checked out, but it looked like it might be the beginnings of a goiter.  Maybe at some point it would act up and he’d have to take her to the hospital.

The “sit down” lights came on and the pilot assured everyone it was only for precautionary measures.

“We may be experiencing a mild amount of turbulence, as we fly directly through the approaching thunderstorm.  If I may say so, it’s a thing of beauty, and if you can overcome your nervousness you may enjoy staring out of the windows.”

Carlo looked past Belinda and saw their window was closed.  Thunder broke ominously from all directions, and a primordial instinct kicked in as he begun to sweat profusely out of his forehead.  He enjoyed movies where people were stranded on desert islands, mostly because he was pretty sure he couldn’t do it himself.  The classic fish out of water story. 

“That guy in the coffee place, were you just talking to him to make me jealous?”  Carlo talked to Belinda’s sleeping body.   He bit his tongue when he realized the guy was sitting across from them, reading Jim Kramer’s Freakonomics.  His computer sat open on the tray table in front of him, and Carlo bitterly assumed it was parked on his Facebook page.  He smiled smugly over at Carlo, his head looking like it might break backwards in a devilish cackle at any moment.

He adjusted the pillow behind his head and folded his arms, and fell into a restless sleep.