Menthol Toothpicks

           He sat there on that nasty couch waiting for his taxi. There was no sound except the traffic outside and a single fan buzzing. All quiet including his own habit of talking to himself. Dwelling on all of it made his stomach surge. The feeling of wanting to throw up was as prevalent as the urge to cry. Where was she? How had he lost his creature?

           Once upon a time he had only loved and lost. This was all so much different. No less powerful, but his mind boiling over was an abstract thing and separate from everything else he'd experienced. It was slower; more drawn out. The gradient fading light was like waking from a dream in slow motion. An absence ached his hands. The creature's portrait never left his waking state, and It teased him in his sleep. No connection to actually speak of existed. Instead, just an inane possibility held his chin up to eye level.

           So he still sat there picking dried food from that nasty couch. Nervous habits overcame him. Scraping teeth on toothpicks and fingernails. Menthol smoke barreled off his tongue and filled the room.

           Beer. Wine. Whiskey.

           He would drift a little; staring at white walls. His focus was stable until everything suddenly collapsed into the intangible. He would snap out of it, and use his left arm to hold himself up while teetering on the edge of euphoria. He smoked more cigarette stubs, and after a while, that's all he had left. Snipes. For that, he'd recently developed an unforgiving cough. To circular trances, he went. Sometimes he traveled through the rain to see a myriad of her reflections splashing and scattering.

           A horn honked downstairs. He was startled. He shuttered. Through each daze he realized more and more that he didn't really feel any need to leave her. The creature had made it easier for him to stay in his box. As a memoir, she told his story for him. He wanted to keep her portrait for all time in return. She would keep him safe, so he couldn't leave.

           He would find her.

He left bags he had planned to depart with by his door. Once outside, he could smell the fumes of the taxi now waiting for him..

           He walked to the driver's side and knocked on the window, but it didn't roll down.

           “Hello?” Again nothing. The windows were tinted too dark to see, even the windshield. "Hey!" He tried the door handle and was sent to the concrete by 45 volts. "F**k!" He let the rain soak him while he caught his breath.

           The window above him creaked and slowly rolled down. Smoke billowed along with a face. A giant cigar protruded rudely out of the mouth of a large, hairy man wearing aviators. The cabbie seemed quite jovial; quite pleased with himself.

           "Boy, you shouldn't be out in weather like this " there seems to be some electricity in the air." The cabbie took his cigar out of his mouth and leaned out of his window laughing.

           "Pretty sure that was your door handle."

           "Nah. Just your imagination." The cabbie put his cigar back into his grin, held it with his pearly whites and nodded his head in agreement of his own logic. His Savannah accent was ingrained with shavings of satisfaction.

           As the man found his way back onto his shaking legs, he asked The cabbie, "Why didn't you roll down your f*****g window the first time I knocked?" The cabbie lifted his head following his passenger's rise and shrugged.

           "Good song on the radio. Didn't want to be interrupted. But it's over now so..." Still smiling. Satisfied.

           "Yeah? Who?" Frustration was not as obvious as the shock.

           "The Stones." A satisfied nod followed..

           "You're kind of a prick, aren't you?" The man wiped pine needles off his pants. "At least you got good taste. Listen man, I called you guys prematurely. I don't need a taxi anymore. I'm not going anywhere tonight...but here's uh...a tip." He reached for his wallet and took out the only two dollar bill he had.

           "Is this about her?"

           He stopped and looked at The cabbie and laughed awkwardly. "It always is, my man." He put his wallet away and tried to hand The cabbie the money.

           "She told me you would change your mind. That's cute, but if you plan to stay here, you will lose her all toge..."

           "What the f**k are you talking about? Huh?" The cabbie just smiled through the attack. "Look man, just take this, and have a nice day." The man was pouting.

           "You're missing the point." The cabbie flicked his cigar and opened up the door to step out showing off his stature. Intimidated, The man stepped back with apprehension from The cabbie's shadow. "You really need to get in the back seat. Here, she gave me this to reassure you and to secure your total cooperation." The cabbie handed The man a locket as a makeshift gift from the creature.

           The man's heart fluttered to life. The locket was a metal heart with a chain. The locket opened to dried blood smeared inside. The creature had left her illusion of fear and found him first. This would be his long awaited chance to prove his love to his only creature comfort..

           "My love sent you?" Unsure and scared, he waited anxiously for what he wanted to hear.

           "Of course." The cabbie re-lit the soggy cigar which had burnt itself out. That lumberjack face gleamed. "Get in."

           "I need my stuff."

           "No...but you see, you don't. Not where she wants me to take you. Not where she is."

           Oh, so strange the last eleven minutes had been for The man, but cabbies are persuasive.

           "She's waiting. Let's not make her wait." The cabbie opened the back door and held it tapping his fingers one by one in sweet anticipation. "So...what's it gonna be?" Smoke drew out of his sneer.

           The man stepped closer to the door and paused. He looked at The cabbie and commented, "She's made the right choice." He sighed glancing at his house and obliged The cabbie by getting in the back seat.

           The cabbie grabbed the door and sighed himself. He turned up to the sky and laughed, mocking, "Nah, unfortunately she didn't Greg."

           As the cabbie slammed the back door, automatic locks preceded Greg's screaming by only a fraction of a second. The cabbie stood there in the rain for a moment finding humor in Greg's hysterics. Even through droplets and black tint, pounding hands and fists could be seen and laughed at.

           Ahh, satisfaction. The cabbie had prepared his latest transport successfully. All in a day's work. As expected, the transport held no memory of the girl's disappearance. He figured the product might be spoiled. The cabbie understood. He knew full well what this job was worth. He held witness to what was left of that young girl in her bathtub. The cabbie helped clean her up.

           With a wink and a sneer, The cabbie watched Greg suffocate in blue gas. The driver's side window came further down with a creak to air out the cab. A new stogie was lit, and the taxi rolled out of the parking lot to the tune of Don't Fear the Reaper.