Dan Stories

"Boy, one day you'll be a man...


Oh Girl, he'll help you understand."




The sound of my own thoughts, roaming around in my head, keeps me awake. I can't rest. I hate it when we fight. I get up, half asleep, my hand against the wall to guide me while my eyes are still drinking in the darkness, sip by sip, adjusting to an almost pitch black house, illuminated only by the red and green dots of light the electric appliances emit.
I make my way to the kitchen for a glass of water, even though thirst is just an excuse my body makes up to try and justify my lack of sleep.
As I slowly move back to bed, I notice something out of the ordinary: the building lights are turned on outside, yet the ray of light that comes in through the bottom of my door isn't regular. It stops halfway through and continues a short while after...there's something in there.
Curiosity speeds up my walk as I reach down for what appears to be an envelope someone stuck beneath the door. No address, no name.
I open it up and immediately recognize the writing. It's him.


"We're not always gonna be sunshine and butterflies.


I think being with me tends to have the same fucked up effect as a night of alcoholic binge.
It starts off sweet, that first taste, that satisfying thirst for something "out of ordinary", mixed in with a lemon and a soda, the liquid equivalents of my early-night ramblings about how beautiful you are.

Next thing you know you've had a couple of those, you've spent time with me. We're happy. Cruising along, sex on the beach. Those neverending talks, those notes at the foot of your bed telling you you're the reason I wake up every morning, promptly complaining afterwards about what shitty job I might have at that time...and how hard the writing is for me. We love it. That edge, the rush of not knowing what we are, what we're going to be, the struggle between the relationship and the fling, the potential of what we can accomplish paints itself before our eyes and you see me as a politically correct, "always fucking ready to whatever the world throws at me" guy. The man you're dreaming of is masking what I really am, but it doesn't matter right now - much like that fifth Martini masks off the unpleasantness of a forgettable night - right now we're both your best friends.

But you don't stop. We don't stop. We keep going. Drinking from the bottle now, out of control. We're explosions in the sky, high tides in the sea, hurricanes in the jungle. We're not happy - we're ecstatic, flying along as you carelessly take another sip, dancing the night away at the club, smiling at your friends, laughing at every little shit that seems remotely fun. You're a child at Christmas morning, you're excited, horny, sexy, nothing can stop you now. And you don't. Take another sip and we're moving into some shitty town together. We're fucking everywhere, lost in lust, passion, hopes, dreams of what both of us can accomplish. We're not like them, we're us! We're the perfect couple.

One last sip and the bottle falls down, it shatters on the ground...you look at it and, for a split second, you doubt yourself...the curtain closes and you see us for what we are. We're not that different, everyone isn't looking at us and your friends aren't laughing anymore, they're dazing off, drunk, going with the flow of a song they no longer try to playback or even follow its beat. I'm naked. The paint washes off, no more masks. You're thinking "should I stop?". You don't.
One last drink.

We're that blackout sensation. That blind rage when we fight and get on each other's nerves while we scream out loud...
This is it. We're over, you're over, falling to the ground, losing your senses while your friends try and help you up...and I slam the door and go for a walk.


Ah, the morning after...that afterglow, once all the lights are turned off, it's just you and your messy hair covered in bits and pieces of food you had last night. That smell...reality comes striking back. You spend the day in bed, slowly recovering what's left of you, trying to remember how you got back home while you flick the remote looking for some mildly interesting show that will make you forget you can barely stand up.


I let myself in, the house is a mess...I can see you went out after our fight. Walking over to our room I glance at the path of destruction your uncoordinated drunken self left: the keys on the floor, the entrance light shattered against the wall, the towels covering up your first hurl, the half-filled bucket by your bedside...
I lie down next to you and tell you you're still the reason I get out off bed every morning. With you, the writing is not so hard.
Suddenly, you don't feel so bad. We're okay.
Because even though I might be sour sometimes...I'll be there the morning after."




Picking up the phone, as I finish reading it, a childish smile on my lips, I call him. It rings once, twice, then a sleepy, mumbling voice picks up.
"Hello?"
"You know, someone once told me you could judge how much someone likes you by how fast they pick up their phone when you call..."
He laughs lightly. His bed springs clatter as he rolls over in it, replying "Well, he seems like a very wise man..."
"You're an idiot."
"Ah thank you. I can never sleep at peace until someone wakes me up at...holy shit 5 a.m....and tells me I'm an idiot...will that be all? Or do you want to call me a jerk as well and avoid the afternoon call?"
"Shut up...I'm sorry. About everything, I was a bitch to you..."
"Don't worry about it. We all have our moments. I assume you read my letter."
"Yes..."
"Am I good or what?"
"You're okay..."
I can feel him smiling on the other side.
"You're not that bad either..you're an "okay plus"."
"Go to sleep, amateur writer."
"Not without a second "idiot" remark. The second one really hits the spot."
"Sleep, you idiot."
"I'll stop by tomorrow."