A Smoke By the Lake

"So there I was...living an empty life. Day to day, so comfortable in my warm and gentle insanity. You understand, don't you? I was always home...without her, it just wasn't. I was empty."

The man to his left nodded. He wasn't one to talk. His companion went on.

"I mean...you go through the rounds...you go from door to door, and it's just so...mechanical. You start to yearn for something new, something vibrant, something alive. But that hurts the most, doesn't it? Seeing the raw, burning sensuality of someone who isn't dead inside..."

Again, his smoking buddy nodded. What needed to be said? Regardless, his friend had to keep talking.

"It's only natural...the chase...the touch. The sound and the breath. The sharpness of feeling. You want that life thrown all over your bed, your walls, your bathroom. You just want to color with it. Paint with it. Make it stick and stink and last over the hollow shell. But it never does last, does it? The judging is the easiest part to expect...but the hardest part to suffer."

Another nod...a long toke. He swallowed the cigarette - no one littered at this lake. Not at his lake. His friend went on.

"And then it all crashes down...that feeling of elation turns to terror, rage, violence. They're trying to throw you back into the dark, into the dead world, into the night while they get to bask in the moonlight and in the sun. But not us...never us. We don't get to taste what love is like."

The third of the trio yawned, tossing a beer like a skipping stone. "I'm no psychologist, but it sounds to me like you're just trying to get back into the womb. Tell me about your...mother?"

"Fuck you, Fred." He walked off. The last of them waved, fingers glinting in the starlight.

"Sweet dreams! ...What a psycho, eh, buddy?"

The other simply shuffled off. No one broke the rules at the lake - now where was that machete?