Time and again, I’m used to dreaming by myself, being by myself. It also doesn’t help that I’m still trying to figure out myself. So, it goes without saying that I’m a success in my dreams, though I’m the only one who knows it. I live for Tomorrow, ‘cause Today always catches me off-guard. Once I step out my door, the dream is over and reality begins. I can’t predict where I’m going, only where I’ve been. That makes the living all the more easy...

No one’s asking for iced coffee...

I looked at him, and with a wink and a smile, gave myself a false vote of confidence. It had been awhile since I had looked upon anyone with any kind of scorn. At that moment, though, I wanted to banish him to hell. It didn’t seem right that he should live in the proverbial fast lane, while I die a slow, lonely death. Were the gods taking bets?

“...and my company is among the fastest growing in the country.”

“...my daughter is eighteen months. Precious little thing.”

Die bastard. Die.

“So I told the real estate agent that sixteen acres wasn’t enough by any means...”

Now, let me clearly state that I’m not one to wish bad luck on anybody. I don’t possess a jealous bone in this old warhorse of a body. I don’t begrudge anyone their god-given, human-being right to happiness, but I also don’t want to hear about it.

I’ve always been partial to lumpy mashed potatoes...

“Remember Jenny Tubman? AKA ‘Tubby Jenny’? Anyway, I saw her at a stockbroker’s meeting. She was cleaning out the office. She can dump the hell out of a trashcan, let me tell ‘ya...”

I gulped and smiled on cue, flinching at his imaginary pat on the back.

Me? I like biscuits with my chicken...

He threw a half-hearted apology up in the air. “Look at me, goin’ on and on about myself. So-” he said, leaning forward, waiting for the punch line - “What’ve you been doing with yourself?”

The loud beep of the microwave told him all he needed to know. He had his answer, the answer he had sought, the answer he had wanted for a lifetime. This was no coincidence - this was destiny, written in the scrolls by men who tell of such things.

I played my role perfectly, never wavering from the script, as I silently went about the task of completing his order. For him, it was sweet revenge with a side order of fries. For me, it was the Last Supper.

He didn’t bother to tell me to keep the change. It wasn’t necessary, for the humiliation was complete.

On his way out the door, he half-turned and casually delivered my eulogy. “Remember when you caught that winning touchdown pass senior year?”

I remembered.

The End