It Smells Like Urine Here

Pete's Point of View.

As Ryan and I walked, I began to realize that we weren’t going back to either of our houses. I didn’t really care, so I just kept following him.

            “So you and Madison are dating.” I stated, rather than asked.

            “No,” he answered flatly.

            “No?”

            “Nope.” He said. “I mean, we’ve fucked, but we were drunk and stoned out of our minds.” He explained.

            “Oh,” I said. I hoped my sadness wasn’t audible.

            “Ever since then, we’ve hung out more, and she things we might have something, but all we have is booze and bongs.” My hope was renewed.

Hope? Was that the emotion I felt?

We were practically downtown now. Ryan led me to a bridge overlooking the saddest excuse for a creek I’d ever seen.

            “It smells like urine here.” I said.

            “I know.” Ryan said as he sat down. I sat down next to him. Realizing the position I was in made my heart beat faster. I was sitting alone with Ryan Lane. So what? I had spent a lot of time with him… but not like this I guess.

            “What do you want to do Pete?” Ryan asked me.

            “What do you mean?” I asked nervously.

            “What do you want to do when you grow up?”

            “I want to be in this band, and I want to make it big.” I answered.

            “Your turn to ask me one.” He said. I thought for a minute.

            “Have you ever been in love?” I asked after I decided that he might not remember this conversation anyway.

            “Never.” He said.

            “I wonder what it feels like.” I almost whispered. I knew I sounded like a girl- I didn’t really care.

            “I would imagine it would feel like wanting to cut your own heart out of your chest and eat it.” He said.

            “That sounds horrible.” I said, looking at him.

Looking at him… and wanting to cut my own heart out of my chest and eat it.

Reviews

[Kaylor Mason]

Good description of love.

[Cicera]

This is very well executed, and even thinking that it's a part of a book, a novel, this little story stands strong on its own feet. The reason is that every part here is used to a certain purpose and nothing is left hanging and waiting to be explained or related in a previous or a following part. Technically speaking it is very good. The last sentences may have been said before, but they couldn't have been said nor put better in this context. Isn't it ironical that we keep our hopes and expectations in secret places where we shun hanging around? Then those most blessed and sweetest secrets come oozing in putrid and aloof parts where little people would come upon except those who we share them with. That is the underground experience in a way. Maybe the beauty of "I love you more than my life" written in red over a dirty uncanny wall has the beauty of red that flows quietly inside the veins. Because that is in a way how such a beautiful expression comes out in plain red, and detached-despite its selfish nature-of the material and aesthetic values that normally in the open others attribute to it.