Together Alone With Himself

Joe's hitting the bottom of the bowl. Twenty minutes and the candy is gone. Floor's littered with wrappers, hands sticky with waxy chocolate. Bit of a train wreck. All for naught. Hustling home, desperate to find something resembling a pumpkin to carve, nearly slicing to the bone as the dull paring knife slides off the gourd and into his finger. Joe wonders why he tries so hard. It's expected of him, maybe, he doesn't know. All the hustle and bustle at work, everyone dressing up and gorging on cookies and cake all day like it's the end of the world instead of the end of the month. Head is raging, there's a migraine coming on. Too much crap. Sugar and coffee and cheap sparkling wine. Carly's wedding shower, with a Halloween theme. Terrible idea. The wedding singer meets the walking dead: who'd want that as an omen for upcoming nuptials. The weather's terrible. Unseasonably warm with hurricane force random gales of wind. He checks the candle in the blood stained jack o lantern every few minutes, relighting it, adjusting the angle, trying to find shelter. No one comes. At 8 o clock, he calls it a night, turns off the light, draws the drapes, brings in all signs of life. One piece leads to five to what the heck, might as well eat it all now and have done with it. His damn head. Pounding. Maybe he'll call in sick, take a personal day. At last count he has twenty six owing. About time he check out for some rest. And do what? This is the $64, 000 question. Some days are lovely. Autonomy has it's privileges. But Joe gets lonely. He's afraid he's spent too much of his life alone, carving out the persona of lone wolf, confirmed bachelor, unattainable, accountable to no one but himself. Mysterious, affable yet distant. All in then all out, good bye, see ya later, lose my number, I told you from the get go I was a no-go kinda guy. Even then he knows it's all a ruse. He doesn't have the goods. He gets toxic, anxious, mean; good women get ugly, he gets defensive under the guise of self actualized detachment and fully realized enlightened selflessness. He needs a smoke. Damn, he wished he still smoked. Yoga? No. Get on his bike, gun it. Too wet, too windy. Pick up the guitar. Ugh. His head is too far gone. Walk. Yes. He steps through the detritus of dead wrappers, throws on his boots, puts his earbuds in, pops a hat on his head, fires up his ipod and disappears. Together, alone in himself, disappearing on hallows eve.