I think I have to pee.

And John was a great painter.

Literally every single person on line for the bathroom looks homeless.
Maybe I can just go in and not touch anything. I’ll just lift the seat up
with my shoe.

John often wondered how Steve Bowman from college was having so
much success while John was stuck doing temp work in a futile attempt
to pay back Rebecca’s passive-aggressive parents for a house he hadn’t
even wanted them to buy. And Steve Bowman was a talentless hack who
even admitted to John that he only writes—paints!—so that he can “bag
women.” He actually said “bag women.” But Rebecca thinks he’s
“interesting” and that they could “have a real life together.” I hope they
both die of cancer. What did John have with Rebecca? How was that not
“real”? Maybe if Rebecca’s parents had let John breathe instead of
forcing their hypocritical Christian “values” down his throat every
chance they got, their relationship would have been more “real.” Good
luck, Steve Bowman. I hope you like having a mother-in-law with no
boundaries.

I think I will get another latte. That barista is so sexy. I’d love to pull her
stringy hair while we have sex on my floor.

John would often go to Rebecca and Steve’s new house in the middle of
the night and just stare in their window.

She probably has a back tattoo. So slutty.

John would secretly hope to see Steve and Rebecca fighting. He would
fantasize about seeing their silhouettes through the window, Rebecca
throwing the telephone at Steve and him ducking but it still hitting him
in the head. John would get aroused by this fantasy.

I’ll say something cool, like “The coffee’s not the only thing hot in
here.” And she’ll probably be like, “I get off at seven.” And I’ll probably
say something like “I don’t have a real job, so any time’s good for me.”
Jesus, who am I kidding? I’m a loser. She would never like me. Even a
stringy-haired barista with a slutty back tattoo would never like me.
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But, of course, John never saw anything in Steve and Rebecca’s

window. He thought of urinating in a glass bottle and throwing it
through their window, but he couldn’t even work up the courage to do
that. He was a loser who couldn’t even commit a petty act of vandalism.

He was a dumb dumb stupid dumb writer—painter!—who couldn’t even

afford an office, so he wrote—painted!—in a Starbucks because he got
fired from Fleurstein and Kaplowitz for making copies of his stories—
paintings!—when he was supposed to be copying legal briefs for those
corrupt corporate shylocks.

And Rebecca would never come back to him and no one would ever
love him and he was going to die fat and bald and alone and miserable in
the ugly house his in-laws bought to suffocate and kill him!

Maybe I’ll get a tea. I like that hibiscus one. It’s sweet but not too sweet.
It’s nice. It’s a nice flavor.

And maybe I will get a slice of that pumpkin loaf. I think I had it before.
I think I definitely liked it. I think it must be seasonal. I haven’t seen it
in a while.

I’ll eat and drink and then get back to work. Everything seems to be
flowing well. It was a little tough getting into it but now it’s really
flowing. It’s weird how I do that—how I think I can’t write something
and suddenly I’m carried away and then I can’t stop writing. I think I’m
too hard on myself. I think I punish myself for no reason. But I think I’m
really hitting my stride now. I’ll just get that tea. That nice hibiscus tea.

And then get back to work.

Illustration by Steve Powers