Free A Wonderful Life by Victoria Rexroth Page B

being transferred to a more secure facility.”
    She leaned forward. “I’m sorry. I liked Lester.”
    “He liked you, too,” he said. “He often asks about you. Wonders what happened.”
    “Doesn’t he understand what breaking up means? Or did you just never tell him? Come to think of it, have you actually told yourself?”
    “What is that supposed to mean?
    “What is that supposed to mean ? Bob, you come here at least once a week and hang out at the bar with me, even though we agreed to see other people. We broke it off, and I see you now more than I ever saw you when we were dating.”
    “I like you,” he said. “I understand we’re never getting back together, but you did want to remain friends.”
    “That’s a throwaway comment people use when they don’t want to date someone anymore,” she replied. “Let’s just be friends means get the fuck out of my life.”
    He took another drink. “So, you want me to leave?”
    She sighed. “No.” She stared at him for a long time before speaking. “I don’t want you to leave. I’m just having a bad day.”
    “I’m sorry,” he said. “Anything I can do to make it better?”
    She shook her head no. “Maybe some day in the past that might have been possible. Not anymore. Business is slow, and the manger’s an asshole.”
    “The manager has always been an asshole,” said Robert. “I, at least, remember that.”
    She smiled. “Why did you come in today? You don’t usually come in until Saturday night. This is a Thursday.”
    “I’m finding myself creating closure in a lot of things today. Thought today would be a good day to come in and visit.”
    “Oh, so you want closure with me now? Little late for that.”
    He smiled back at her. “No, not really what I meant. I just needed to see a familiar face.”
    “Are you even writing anymore?”
    He stared back, slightly stunned by her question. “What do you mean?”
    “Every night you come in here, you keep talking about how you’re going to be writing another novel, but I’m suspecting you haven’t written a single thing in the last three years.”
    “I’ve been working on a recent project,” he said. “It’s a little different from the rest of my work.”
    “No science fiction aliens? No female vampires in black leather chasing the hero around?”
    “No, this is different. It’s more of a psychological project I’ve been wanting to tackle for a few years now.”
    She leaned on the counter on her elbows, her head balanced on her hands. “I’m intrigued. Tell me about it.”
    “Well, it’s called Precipice . It’s about a writer who decides his time is finally up, so he decides to write a story about another writer who is planning to kill himself. Kind of like a call for help, but at the same time with a cathartic spin to it.”
    “That sounds kind of depressing,” she said.
    “It’s not, really. It’s more about how the author has done everything he can do in his life but has never made it as an author, so he writes an autobiographical novel, like Kenneth Rexroth did in his name-dropping autobiographical novel. Except, the purpose of this novel is that the author realizes there can only be one ending to a very depressing story of one’s uneventful life.”
    “It still sounds depressing.”
    “It’s more about how creative types live their lives in quiet desperation, often creating their work in momentary flashes of brilliance, and then they have outlived their usefulness, to both the world and to themselves. It’s why so many creative types have committed suicide over the years. Artists, musicians, writers and even mathematical geniuses have often hit this burned out point where they realize the only thing they have left to explore is the end of life itself. It’s not always depressing.”
    “But why are you writing this? Is this your call for help?”
    “No,” he said. “I’m beyond any call for help. It’s more about a realization that an author has a few chances