Preview: An Unpopular Opinion (Working Title)

Here is a sample of a piece from a novella I am working on. This is the first two pages.

“Give us an unpopular opinion,” he said, with a face that twisted between creepy and interested.

“I don’t believe in hope."

“You don’t?”

“No.”

“So, when I want something to happen…”

“You just want it to happen.”

“Well, I hope it will.”

“Which is just wanting. Making the word ‘hope’ redundant.”

“Well doesn’t hope imply more of uh… impossibility?”

“If it does, then it doesn’t exist. Which proves my point.”

“Okay. Okay.”

“It’s not tangible, it doesn’t have a beginning. Hope isn’t real. You either want something, need something, have something, or you don’t.”

“So, if I say I want to take you to my place?”

“I’ll say keep wanting.”

He snickered, and his face somehow pushed itself more towards creepy. His eyebrows arched to the point of grotesque, covering his forehead in deep unattractive grooves, “then I guess I hope you’ll change your mind.”

And with that, another one gone. I lean back in my chair and pull my water to my face. I don’t want to be here. I don’t want to be anywhere. I don’t want anything. Rachel was on the dance floor. She had been balancing a tequila sunrise in one hand, and a man’s crotch in the other.

Multitasking is often said to be a womanly feature, and it certainly isn’t being disproved tonight.

I squeezed too much of the lemon into my water, but didn’t bother asking for a refill or a new cup to remedy the situation. Soon the ice would melt under the heat of the club lights and it’ll taste fine.

I catch myself staring at Rachel, wondering how someone could consider that dancing. What a weird way to be.

Time passes slower when you think about it, so I don’t think about it. I just draw small lines with a cocktail straw on a pile of salt I poured onto the table. I make a swirl, scribble it out of existence and then I make rows. I try my hand at consecutive waves, but change my mind and make it into an ocean. I draw a small lump in the water, and then some lines from that. It’s an island. Tada, I think to myself. What a stellar piece of art. One whose entire existence will be erased in 3… 2… 1…

It could’ve gone in a museum. But to understand the context, the curator would’ve needed to hire 100 actors and actresses that dance poorly around a stupid table. Where some girl sits in a bar stool, with a black straw hovering just over my creation.

Maybe it could be one of those exhibits in a free museum, but to see this work, you have to pay extra. One you can walk through. And maybe no one would know why it was art, it would just look like a club scene. But if they ask the employees for a tip on how to see it from the best angle, they’d say look for the girl in the blue sweater. She’s in the corner, but not the far corner. Close enough to keep an eye on her friend, the one in the green dress.

Then I’ll be famous in the art crowd. And I could make money throwing paint at wooden boards. I’ll wear clothes from goodwill and post photos of my food on social media and life might finally be good.