Chapter 19

19

I am absently fingering the corners of Jon's business card, nervously anticipating a phone call and a conversation. I find myself pondering the idea of my existence over a cup of coffee in this cold and uninspiring bookstore. I've selected the newest issue of the "New Yorker", the date of which reads December 19th, 2005. Some guy named Jackson has managed to remake "King Kong". I have yet to read a single word of the article.

Somewhere in my mind I've come to grips with my current reality. The last New Yorker I remember reading through was dated in the early 80's; 1983 to be entirely correct. I find myself now, twenty-two years into the future, sipping on a "mocha" and unable to piece together a past. I see my last memory in a blue armchair. I hear the ticking of a clock. I feel a nervous anticipation in my chest. A searing thought enters my mind. I should be dead by now. She'd be better off without me.

I smell her perfume. I hear her voice.

I stop my mind and look up. She is standing there, smiling down at me.

"Hey, I thought that might be you."

A broken typewriter lies scattered in the doorway. She kicks the key I use for "R" as she takes a step closer to me.

"Can I sit down?"
"Sure." The audible word is followed by an unspoken truth.

But I won't be here for long.