Tomas and the Onions

Tomas was eating an onion. It was his third straight day of eating nothing but onions, and he was beginning to feel the effects.

For one thing, his piss had started to smell like onions. For another thing, he was really sick of onions.

They were only the white ones too, not even a variety of yellow and red and maybe a fancy sweet Vidalia. Just plain white onions. At this point he’d settle happily for a leek, or a clove of garlic. He’d like some dandelion greens, or maybe some chicory. He’d eat any damn thing that grew in the damn yard.

He looked morosely at his fingers, clasped around the plain white onion, and then took another big bite from it. He swallowed the juicy mess down. He pondered his index finger again, gave it an experimental lick and then nibbled at it tentatively. It was no good. He lacked the tenacity to bite it right through. Godverdomme! He thought of hurling the onion away in disgust, but then reconsidered and set it gently down on his plate.

Tomas looked over at the dog. The dog was eating steak tartare. He seemed to be enjoying it, too. The tags on his collar rang merrily against the edge of his white porcelain bowl as he devoured its contents. What an annoying sound! Few things had ever been more irritating.

This really was some bullshit. Narrowing his eyes balefully, Tomas glared at the dog and thought it had some damned nerve. He was no fan of dogs in the best of circumstances, and these were not those. Overall, Tomas figured that dogs were good for only two things: incessantly licking their own balls, and all other types of shenanigans.

Tomas’s stomach made awful gurgling noises as he pondered the dog’s dinner, but his gorge rose as he tried to bring the stupid white onion with two bites out of it back to his mouth.

He was not sure if this whole thing was going to work.

The Vial

Sometimes he wished it was just a bit more difficult.

Looking in the mirror he contemplated both the night ahead of him and the head in front of him. It had been a good decision to shave everything off, he thought. The clean-shaven head and goatee made him look meaner, and he’d realized a while back that most girls thought the meaner a man looked, the more protection he offered. Girls’ errors in judgment were not his problem though. In fact, you could say that girls’ errors in judgment were his stock in trade.

He grabbed his toothbrush and set the timer for three minutes. While scrubbing viciously on his teeth he planned his movements. He knew which bars he was hitting first, and he knew where he’d probably end his evening. Any good thing that happened in between was just gravy. Last week had been very special and he was still riding that high.

He’d been nervous at first, the cute little blond looked so far out of his league he’d felt like he was batting for his nephew’s tee ball team. But then she’d seen him looking and she’d looked back, and he’d known he had a shot. He’d left that one crumpled in the last stall on the left in the bar’s dimly-lit bathroom. If she’d been conscious he was sure she’d have been smiling. She wouldn’t remember anything that happened, of course. She certainly wouldn’t remember him. He could probably walk up to her tonight and chat her up all over again. But then again, he doubted she’d be out this weekend. She was probably resting up.

Teeth clean and sparkling white and, according to the toothpaste tube, he was now graced with breath as fresh as an alpine breeze. How fresh was an alpine breeze anyway? Fresher than a mountain spring? Fresher than polar ice? He bet that polar ice got pretty rank from time to time; say if someone had just clubbed a baby seal to death on it, or a penguin took a big shit. That wouldn’t be too fresh.  His breath was as fresh as just-brushed motherfucking teeth, he decided, and wondered if he’d missed his calling for writing ad copy.

He walked to the bedroom and contemplated his wardrobe. Not great. Things were looking a tad sparse. He took a clean black shirt out of its plastic wrapping and threw the bag to the floor of the closet, adding to the growing pile. Maybe he needed to go shopping, buy some new gear. He hated shopping though. What he really needed was a girl to go shopping with him, or maybe for him. He was crap at picking out things to wear, absolute crap. That wasn’t a straight guy’s forte though, was it? Dressing himself? Nah.

Now… wallet? Check. Keys? Check. Abundant cash? Check. Vial of what amounted to pure liquid love? That’s a big fat check right there, hombre.

Life before this little glass vial had been… problematic. Difficult. Never knowing how the night would end. Standing around uncomfortable, awkward, wearing a dorky outfit and a goofy grin as often as not. Now, life was easy, certain, sure. Every weekend he met the most extraordinary women, and they loved him so intensely he thought sometimes he’d die of it. Relaxed, comfortable women who were kind and smelled good and smiled gently at him through bleary, tear-filled eyes. He’d get them away from their pesky friends, he’d get a little privacy and then he’d… well, gentlemen didn’t kiss and tell, did they?

He climbed into his car and thought back to his first clumsy attempt at the routine that was now slick and glossy. Miranda. He pressed the middle syllable of her name against the roof of his mouth. Mi-raaaan-dah. She’d actually pulled a knife on him. Slurring, she called him a fucking creep and had fled behind the bar, where the bartender started giving him nasty looks as he listened to her story. He stayed well clear of that bar now. He stayed well clear of girls like Miranda, who looked like they knew what was up. He targeted the lonely, the out of place, the girls who looked persuadable. The girls whose friends weren’t paying attention, the girls who weren’t sure what bar they were in, or what neighborhood. Adding to their confusion hardly seemed a sin.

Swinging his car into the parking lot he smiled and checked his teeth in the mirror. White and gleaming, breath still minty-fucking-fresh. He was ready for another night out on the town.

Make Your Selection

The aisles of the store were wide and bright and it didn’t matter how it was outside, in here it was cool and clean and always the same. She pushed her cart down the wide, bright aisles and looked intently at this and that, wondering if anyone was noticing, judging her for the things she perused. Perhaps someone was judging in a quiet, unobtrusive way. It was hard to say.

“Who does she think she is?”

Maybe she should select something less expensive, so as not to seem pretentious. Or maybe something more expensive, to show them she didn’t care what they thought. Whoever they were.

She wandered over to look at other things, the kinds of things no one really needed, and she selected several of them. It wouldn’t do to go to the checkout with a meagerly stocked cart. Not at all. As she rolled the cart down the aisle she marveled at how large it was. It seemed as if when she was younger, carts were not so large. Perhaps it was a marketing ploy to make her purchases seem smaller, to make herself seem smaller. She wondered if anyone noticed how small she looked in comparison to the giant cart, and whether it was slightly ridiculous.

“There’s lots of room for you on the bandwagon.”

Quietly she smiled to herself, wise to their tricks.

She wondered if anyone noticed her selectivity as she shopped, her style and taste. Did they notice how the things she was buying seemed to flow together into her big red cart? How they painted a picture of her tidy, structured life? Looking at her purchases, anyone could see that everything here was perfectly managed and under control. Her manner of living was obviously one to be emulated. Worthy of their covert attention and grudging respect. She was sure they noticed that, at least.

She wheeled the giant cart to the rows of registers and paid for her things. The cashier seemed unimpressed with the quality of her purchases, ringing them up in a quite haphazard fashion. The cashier seemed sleepy and bored, truthfully. The cashier seemed not to notice anything important.

She went to her car and packed her bags neatly away in the back seat. The orderly way in which she arranged them ensured everything would arrive home safely. Of course it was then that someone finally noticed and appreciated her extremely good style and taste, her attention to detail. He had a knife and some silver tape, and he stood in the shadows where it was quiet and dark.

“It’s wonderful to meet you.”

He wielded the knife with precision. Quite gracefully, in fact. If anyone had noticed they surely would have admired his skill. And it didn’t matter how it was inside, out here it was hot and red and always the same.