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“I just don't understand why you want to see her so bad,” she said.
“I don't want to see her, well, I suppose I do, but... I don't know. I really don't know,” he replied.”
“Then don't go.”
“You don't understand. I have to go.”
“No you don't.”
He paused. “I know.”
He sighed and let his shoulders drop.
She walked across the room slowly until she stood before him, leaned forward a little and said, “then don't go.”
The argument had been going on for days now, though this was the first they'd actually spoken of it.
“You know what I'm gonna say,” he said.
“Yeah, but I still don't know why.”
“I don't know. You have to understand,” he paused again, “she used to mean a lot to me.”
“Yeah, then she robbed you and disappeared.”
He wanted to say something, but there was really nothing to say. She was right and he knew it, so he just stood there and stared pleadingly into her eyes.
“Okay,” she said as she turned about and began to walk away from him “just do it. I don't care.”
“Baby,” he said following close behind her, “don't do this.”
“Don't do what?”
“You know what I'm talking about.”
She did. But the knowledge did about as much to keep her from walking away from him as doing so kept him from following.
“Just try to understand.”
“That's not gonna happen.”
“Then just deal with it. Please.”
She turned around and caught his gaze. Her countenance softened, but only a little.
And so they stood looking at one another, trying to understand something far beyond either of them.
“I'm gonna go do this. Okay?” he asked.
“Okay,” she replied.
“I'll be back in a few hours. Okay?”
“Okay. Just don't let her make you pay for the drinks. She owes you enough as it is.”
He smirked. “Okay baby. I'll see you in a while.”
“See you. I love you.”
“Love you too.”
With that he walked out of one door, down a few blocks, and then into another. One that led him into a dark and unfamiliar place that smelled of liquor, cigarettes, and sweat. Strange pieces of kitschy decorum sat on shelves, or hung like sacred objects from a ceiling painted dark enough to hide decade’s worth of tobacco stains.
He maneuvered his way first to the bar where he bought a glass of beer, and after a moments hesitation, one more, before moving to an empty table where he sat in quiet anticipation. As he sat and stared at the room around him, he began to wonder if perhaps the dark walls surrounding him and the multitude of strangers milling about inside had never even seen a drop of paint, but rather, over the course of the years found themselves forced into their current dark disposition through the second hand inhalation of its patrons cigarettes.
After 20 minutes he also started to wonder how much longer he was going to have to wait. With each passing second he began to feel more out of place. Sitting alone at his table with two slowly-warming glasses of beer before him he began to feel the gaze of strangers wash over him like water striking against the beach, tearing away his self confidence one grain at a time. Everyone else in the place seemed to move about like a singular mass, pushed back and forth, to and fro by either the sound of the music as it blew forth with gale force and bounced off the walls, a desire to seek the comfort of familiar faces waiting on the other side of the bar, or just the simple need to keep moving for fear of growing stagnant.
His drink slowly but surely diminished, until it was nearly gone. And then it disappeared, leaving only an empty glass. He looked at the other beer sitting on the table and considered claiming it as his own. He leaned forward to pick it up, hesitated for a moment, then decided he'd prefer to go get another for himself. So he stood up from his chair and began towards the bar, only to be stopped by the sight of her standing before him.
The two of them stood, facing each other without making eye contact.
“Hi,” she said.
“Hi,” he replied.
They paused awkwardly, and continued to stand. He glanced at the curves of her body, caught sight of her long brown hair, but couldn't look her in the eyes. Partially because of the past, and partially because she was the ugliest woman he'd ever seen.
“So,” he said.
“So,” she replied.
“Do you want to sit down?”
“I suppose.”
They moved back to the table and took their seats. The empty glass of beer sat before him, the full one before her.
“I got you a drink,” he said.
“Thanks, but I'm afraid I don't drink beer anymore.”
“What?”
“I don't drink beer anymore. It just doesn't suit me like it used to.”
He laughed. “Are you serious?”
“Yes,” she said, finding no humor in the situation and doing her best to make it quite clear.
“Well, ok then.”
She raised her hand and a waiter came quickly to her side.
“Well hello darlin',” said the effeminate young man, “what can I do for you?”
“Hi Johnny, just bring me a margarita.”
“Sure thing darlin',” the waiter replied, then leaning over to her ear asked, “who’s he?”
“Just an old friend of mine.”
“Oh, a friend.”
“Yes.”
“Well ok darlin', I'll have that margarita out in a second.”
“All right Johnny.” With that, Johnny headed off towards the bar.
“I take it you're a regular here,” he said.
“I suppose so. It's nice to have a comfortable place to go get a drink every once and a while. A place where people are nice to you. Where they don’t judge you.”
“Where everyone knows your name,” he replied with a smile that quickly faded into another awkward silence. The sounds of strangers and of the music all around them only increased the distance between them.
“So why did you call?” he asked after the silence had become too much to bear.
She looked up, their eyes met for the first time. Hers were full of sadness, a strange sadness the likes of which his had never seen before. One fueled by a strange mixture of regret and satisfaction. Satisfaction with the woman she'd become, and regret for all the things she'd lost in the process.
“Here's that margarita darlin',” said Johnny, placing the drink before her.
“Thanks Johnny.”
“Anything else?”
“No, that's all.”
“Anything for that old friend of yours?”
“No, I'm fine for now.”
“Well all right. You two have fun, just call me if you need me.”
“Thanks.”
“So,” he said, “getting back to the point, why did you call.”
“Why did you answer?”
“I erased your phone number long ago. I didn't even realize it was you calling.”
“Oh.”
“So, why did you call me?”
“Well,” she paused to think, “I, well-
“Let me guess, you don’t know”
“I suppose I don’t.”
“Huh. Well that’s interesting.”
“What?”
“Neither of us has any idea why we’re here.”
“I suppose that’s true.”
Perplexed by the strange and unexpected situation in which they suddenly realized they were in, he, and she, found themselves once again overwhelmed by a profound and unsettling silence. The revelation that since neither of them knew exactly what had motivated them to end up where they were at the moment, neither of them really had any reason to be there. But alas, they were there. Confused and burdened by a silence, the likes of which, in even the darkest times of their relationship, they had never known. A silence like the world had stopped for an instant, as though it and everything on it had grown tired of speaking and needed to take a breath. It inhaled, then exhaled, then much to their chagrin it still made no sound. And in this newfound silence they had to stop and wonder if a sound was even needed. In the end they realized it wasn’t, but that didn’t stop them from wanting one. Wanting so much that eventually one came.
“I’ll be right back,” she said.
“Ok.”
She got up, and made her way into the crowd. He quickly lost sight of her, but kept an eye out nonetheless. It didn’t really matter though, the crowd was large, and moved so much that people became like drops of water in an ocean. Stuck in the middle of this ocean, he began to feel more and more alone, until a familiar face emerged from the crowd.
“Hey there sweetheart, do you want the bill now or should I come back?” asked Johnny.
“The bill?”
“Yeah, you know, for the drinks.”
“Well, I’m still waiting on my friend to get back. We might have another round.”
“Sweety, I just saw her walk out the door. She told me you’d probably want the bill.”
“I suppose I’ll take it now then.”
“Ok, here you go.”
He opened the leather booklet and looked at the piece of paper inside to find he’d been charged for two beers and a margarita.

Killing Time. Ch 1

The waiter walked down the red carpeted aisle making his way to each of the sparsely populated tables. Refilling water glasses, nodding politely, doing everything in his power to assure the best possible experience for those who, for a brief time, depended upon him to furnish them with the most basic substances of life.

He was a handsome young man, tall, tan, and of muscular build. He'd never planned to be a waiter, life just led him that way as it had so many others. He didn't mind too much though. The work kept him busy and the pay was good. Well, in the daytime at least. The kind of people who patronized the dining car at that ungodly hour wanted little and tipped accordingly.

At the first table sat a rather tense looking fellow who'd been staring at nothing in particular in the same general direction for some time. By the waiter's count he was on his third gin and tonic.

“Good evening sir, is there anything I can do for you? Perhaps another drink?”

“No.”

“Well then perhaps a light snack? We serve a crème brulee that's simply fantastic.”

“No.”

“Very well sir. Should you need anything just let me know.”

“Okay.”

After a few silent moments the waiter decided to move on to the next occupied table.

It's sole occupant was a man no more than four feet tall with an extravagant mustache, who sat passed out in front of a large, empty beer mug. One of the waiter's jobs was to try and prevent that sort of thing from happening, mainly by kicking out any and all patrons unlucky enough to find themselves in that poor dwarf's position. But the little fellow was doing no harm to anyone, so the waiter let him be and moved on to the next table.

“Good evening madame. Might I be of service?” he asked as he took subtle, brief glances down the low-cut of the woman's deep blue evening gown. .

“No, I'm fine for now”

“Are you sure, perhaps you'd like another glass of wine?”

“No thanks. I don't plan to be here much longer.”

“Very well.”

The waiter couldn't help but feel excited as he made his way to the car's last table; one occupied by an alarmingly thin, pale looking man who sat staring at a pad of paper with nothing but a single indistinct word scrawled upon it.

“Is their anything you need sir. More milk?”

“No I'm fine for now.” He said as he put out a cigarette.

“Very well.”

Having completed his bi-hourly rounds he turned about and headed back towards the galley.

As he made his way to the other end of the car he glanced at each of the lonely strangers who, as they sat engrossed in whatever menial thing it was that they'd decided to give their attention to, paid no mind to him.

In little time he'd reached the double doors at the back of the car. He pushed them open, and for a brief instant turned away, blinded by the overwhelming flash of bright light that always accompanied the passage from the subdued and dingy earth tones of the dining car into the alarming sterile whiteness of the kitchen.

After his eyes had stopped throbbing from the shock He looked about for the head, and only, chef who, for the moment, was nowhere to be seen. Satisfied by this absence he casually strolled over to the nearest window and lit a cigarette.

He inhaled

Then exhaled

Inhaled

Then exhaled, rhythmically drawing the red hot tip of his cigarette closer and closer to his lips, as it pushed everything in between straight into his lungs, one slow beat at a time.

The strange dance between man and fire kept moving along in steady rhythm as boredom forced thoughts into the waiters head. Melancholy thoughts of dreams abandoned that echoed languorously back and forth across the white walls of the kitchen, diminishing more and more with every iteration.

While the waiter sat engrossed in his own reflections another man quietly made his into the kitchen. So lost in his own thoughts was the waiter that he neglected to detect the presence of this new man until he was practically upon him.

“Jesus,” the waiter said before pausing to catch his breath, “you scared the hell outta me.”

“Sorry,” said the man as he reached behind himself and began to untie his conspicuously stained apron, “You won’t believe what just happened.”

“What?”

“Well, I’d just finished making a Manhattan for this lady over in the dome, then right after I sat it on the bar the train turned real sharp like, and the damn thing spilled over right onto the bar and then onto my damn crotch.”

“I suppose that explains the dirty apron.”

“Yeah. I was outta towels too so I figured I had a good excuse to head this direction,” the bartender said as he pulled off the apron and tossed it into a basket, thereby getting rid of the one thing that had, to that point, disguised the near ghastly thinness of his frame.

“You gotta smoke I could bum?” he asked the waiter.

“Let me check.”

Sure enough the waiter had three left. Just enough, he figured, to provide for one in need while reasonably ensuring his own future satisfaction. So he handed a cigarette to his companion and the two proceeded to stand about and smoke in silence as the sound of the world outside whistled past the open window.

As the waiter gradually moved ever closer to the end of his cigarette, or rather moved it closer to him, he began to notice a strange presence that seemed to hang about the bartender; nothing that could be called supernatural or even ephemeral for that matter, just strange.

As he continued to glance it occurred to him. Whereas his own tone, both in color and in shape, contrasted rather starkly with the startlingly white interior of the kitchen, that of the bartender did not. In fact, it did not to such a degree that, as he leaned back against the white wall behind him, the border between his own pale skin and that wall seemed less and less distinct. White placed against white, then absorbed by it.

“Take a picture sailor, it’ll last longer,” said the bartender with a smirk.

“What?” replied the waiter, shocked and embarrassed.

“Nothing. Where should I put this when I’m done?” the bartender asked as he waved his cigarette about.

“Just toss it out the window.”

“All right.”

Two puffs later, he did just that.

“Hey, what are you doing? You still had half a smoke.”

“I know. But I figure it’s about time I got back to work.”

“Huh. I suppose you truly are a man of discipline.”

“I do my damnedest,” replied the bartender, as he moved to grab a fresh apron and some towels from a shelf near the door. “Thanks for the smoke, I’ll get ya’ back sometime.”

“Think nothing of it.”

Killing Time. Ch 0

The dining car was mostly empty, and not surprisingly so at that hour. Most of the car's occupants sat alone, casually picking at the remains of the late night dinners and midnight snacks that still sat on their simple white ceramic plates. Amongst that crowd of quiet solitary patrons there sat two very distinct looking men on opposite sides of the same table.

Before the first, an alarmingly thin and somewhat sickly looking fellow, sat a rather large bowl in which a few odd pieces of lettuce lay about, intermingled with a couple tablespoons of raspberry vinaigrette. Next to his plate there was a half empty glass of milk.

In front of the second, a trim muscular fellow with a vibrant tan and teeth as bright as snow in the sunshine, sat a T-shaped piece of bone, and an untouched piece of parsley. To the left of his plate was a half full glass of cranberry juice.

Neither of the two men was looking at the other, but rather, each upon an object he felt to be more deserving of his gaze.

For the first man it was a pad of paper with a single word written on it.

For the second, the plate in front of him.

The first man tapped a pencil impatiently as he tried to encourage his thoughts to take on solid shapes.

Tap.

Nothing.

Tap.

Nothing.

Tap.

Nothing.

Tap.

Nothing.

The second man had quite the opposite problem, as he stared at his plate, trivial little thoughts just wouldn't leave him alone.

Tap.

Nothing.

I wonder how many inches are in a mile?

Tap.

Nothing.

Well, 12 feet to an inch...

Tap.

Nothing.

...wait, got that backwards, 12 inches in a foot.

Tap.

Nothing.

So, uh, 5,000 and something feet in a mile then...

Tap.

Nothing.

...12 times 5,000. Hmmm...

Tap.

Nothing.

...well, uh, oh to hell with it.

Tap.

Nothing.

“Hey. Hey.”

“Hm?”

“Whatcha doin?”

“Oh, just killing time.”

“ I kind of assumed that. What specifically are you doing to kill time”

“Word golf.”

“Huh?” the second man said as he shot a perplexed look in the direction of his companion.

“Word golf.”
“I heard you the first time. What's word golf?”

“It's a game.”

Frustration painted itself in broad strokes across the second man's face.

“What kind of game is it? How do you play? What are the rules?”

The first man finally turned his gaze away from the pad of paper in front of him and made eye contact with the second.

He paused long enough to irritate.

“You pick two words of the same length. Then, starting with the first word, change one letter so as to make a new word. Then, take that new word and change one letter to make another. Then, so on and so on until you've ended up with the second of the two words you picked at first.”

“Huh. Sounds like a blast. What've you got so far?” said the second man before taking a long pull off his cranberry juice.

“Nothing”

“Well, what two words did you pick?”

“Live and dead.”

“How very original.”

“Thanks,” said the first man with no noticeable change in expression or tone.

After a brief pause he sat down his pencil, reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a pack of cigarettes, opened it, brought one to his lips and lit it, inhaling deeply, then exhaling with a sigh.

“Giving up already?”asked the second man as he brought his glass towards his mouth.

“No. Just taking a break.”

“You know, those things-”

“Will kill me. I know. You've told me. Many times in fact.”

“Well they will,” he paused,“ and you know it wouldn't hurt you to eat a steak every now and then.”

“Eating meat is vile and dirty.”

“And smoking is so great.”

The first man sighed a thick white cloud in the general direction of the second, before speaking.

“You know who else thought smoking was a disgusting habit?” he asked

“Your ex-wife?”

“Hitler.”

“Yeah, he was also a vegetarian.” The second second man said with a smirk.

The first man stopped to think.

“Well. I suppose no one can be completely evil.”

“Hm.”

And with that the second man turned his attention back to the plate in front of him while the first turned his back to the pad of paper. A few seconds later he began to tap his pencil again in a vain attempt to find the right words.

Tap

Nothing.

Tap.

Nothing.

Tap.

Nothing.

I could really use some more cranberry juice.

Tap.

Nothing.

Where'd that waiter go?

Tap.

Nothing.

I wonder where the bar is on this train? All trains have bars. Maybe they can get me some juice at the bar.

Tap.

Nothing.

“Hey.”

“What.”

“Do you know where the bar is on this thing?”

“Yeah, actually I think there's a few. One in the dome car, one in the lounge, and one in the observation car I think.”

“Why the hell would a train need three bars?”

“I guess long distance travel makes some people nervous.”

“Huh. Well, I'm gonna go look for one.”

“Ok.”

With that the second man stood up, grabbed his jacket and hat, then headed down the aisle towards the next car.