My first movement was to flex my shoulders, which resulted in a sharp pain near my lungs. I'm laying absolutely still now, clutching my chest, waiting for it to go away. I've never understood how sleep can be such a strenuous activity. But then, I was really wailing on that guy.

The pain fades away, and I feel the beat of my heart against the palm of my hand. I think about the temperature of blood. People say we're warm-blooded, but really, blood is downright hot. I imagine it, my heart pumping gallons of blood into my cupped hands, feeling the heat against my skin as it runs down my arms and onto the floor. I'm suddenly terrified at the mere inch of skin and bone which stands between the world and the center of my show. The muscle expands and contracts with a force that could probably bruise my finger, day after day, infallibly, but if it were to take a breather, even just for a few minutes, I'd be dead. People talk about the importance of the heart in their lives : speaking from the heart, doing from the heart, seeing from the heart, but I think they're missing the real point.

I consider changing my clothes, but decide just to wear the same ones from yesterday. I try to find something to eat, but the fridge is full of unappealing junk. I count the change in my pocket and decide to go to the convenience store down the street, stepping out into the odd brightness of early morning. It's only about nine o'clock, but for me, that's early. I stroll down the street, looking at the cars that pass, seeing which people will take their eyes off the road long enough to meet my glance.

The girl in the convenience store doesn't seem as depressed as usual. She even smiles at me as she rings up my bottle of orange juice. Her face reminds me of the feeling I always used to get on the last day of school, the feeling of pure joy at being in the belly of the beast but knowing that my surroundings couldn't hurt me anymore. I want to ask her if she's planning to quit, but it'd be awkward because I really don't know her that well. On the way out she says, "Come again!" and the joy on her face just floors me. It's amazing how people can change; I don't think I've ever even seen her grin sarcastically before today.

I swallow the orange juice in two gulps, and toss the bottle in the trash. After a deep breath I start walking downtown, weaving through the occasional group of tourists. One old man stops me on the bridge to point out a boat that's anchored upriver, unable to pass due to its giant mast. We laugh about it and I feel like I should talk to him some more, because he seems full of energy with no place to expend it, but I've got places to go.

I get to the other side of the river and the streets are clear, leaving everything peculiarly quiet for a moment as I cross. But just as I step onto the opposite curb a car speeds past behind me, sending a shiver up my spine. I wonder how I missed seeing it.

I slide my hand into my pocket and a smile slides onto my face. A five dollar bill. I love it when that happens. I make a bee-line for the nearest Tim Hortons, which is nearer than you might expect, and buy a half dozen cookies. I make sure to eat the oatmeal-raisin last; it's like a glass of water next to rest of that sticky shit.

I toss the bag into a passing trashcan and continue walking, running a stray hand through my hair. I'm kind of surprised that no one has mentioned my haircut. This is without a doubt the worst haircut I've ever had. It's so bad that I expect total strangers to walk up to me and say, "That haircut is so phony. It doesn't fit you at all. You've obviously made a mistake." But nobody does. I'll just have to try not to look in any mirrors while I wait for it to grow back in.

"Jerry."

I turn, startled, and see Scott standing behind me.

"Nice haircut," he says.

"Whae's new wi' you then, catboy?"

That sours his look. "Shut up with that shit, will you?"

"It's no shite. It's, likesay, fuckin' great, ken?"

He rolls his eyes and refuses to speak, so I drop the accent and say, "Nice day, huh?"

"Yeah, great. You want to get something to eat?"

"I dunno. I'm almost broke, and I just had some cookies..."

"Cookies aren't fucking food. Look, here's a ticket for a free sub."

He hands me a little card from a stack in his pocket. Every time you buy a sub they give you a sticker, eight stickers and you get a free sandwich. I notice that each of his cards is already full.

"Where'd you get those?"

"I know a guy who just quit, so he swiped a bunch of cards before he left. All you have to do is buy a drink."

I give my card closer inspection. "Look, all the stickers are still attached to each other. And they're numbered sequentially. You can't get away with this."

"Get your head out of your ass. Nobody cares about that. Just go when it's busy." He pauses. "So, are you coming?"

"I doubt it's that busy right now."

He just glares at me, so I go with him. The place is almost deserted, but nobody notices the tickets, so we end up robbing them out of two sandwiches. On my way out I have to squeeze past a guy who's bending over a table for some reason, and I bump into him by mistake.

"Sorry," I say.

"Sorry?" the guy asks, in a clear voice but without looking at me. "In my day it was 'pardon me' or 'may I please get by?' Not 'sorry'." He sounds genuinely indignant, which has me scoobied. He finally looks at me and I just sorta glare at him. Fucking weirdo.

Outside me and Scott sit at a plastic table and unwrap our sandwiches. "You should use those cards quick, before some manager gets wise to the scam."

He considers that. "Yeah, that could be a problem, especially since the guy I got them from also gave them out to five or six other guys."

I swallow my bite. "Really?"

"Yup. My pile was the smallest, too."

"So what is that? Like two-hundred tickets?"

"Something like that."

"Shit..."

"Ah, there're so many managers between the different branches that it'll take them forever to catch on."

We silently finish our subs and I lean back, waiting for a belch that isn't going to come. Just then a totally gorgeous girl walks by, and I watch her breasts as they stride past. After a moment she slips behind a building, leaving me a last glimpse of her leg. I crane my head slowly back to Scott and say, "Did you see that?"

He smirks without any apparent mirth and says, "Yeah."

"Sweet, huh?"

"Not really."

I furrow my brow. "What do you mean, not really?"

"I mean it would be great to have sex with her, but can you imagine waking up beside her the next morning and having to put up with her shit?

"That might be true, but a one-night stand would be just grand."

"What's the point? Just go home and jerk off."

"Ooh, don't tell me Scotty boy's holding off for true love?"

He squints at me. "Not exactly."

"You could be right, though. It's like there's three different kinds of women," I say, ticking off a finger: "There's the ordinary type, who you could care less about in virtually any situation. Then there's the ridiculously, devastatingly beautiful type, who are about one in ten-thousand, who you'd do anything to be with and it would always be worth it." Finger number three: "Then there are the ones who are attractive, but not quite attractive enough. They may be beautiful, but they're missing something in the eyes that keeps you from falling in love with them. Their face doesn't keep you interested, but you can't just stare at their tits all day. So in the end you just can't look at them at all. They're the ones who really drive me nuts."

"You seemed to do a pretty good job of staring at that last chick's tits."

"Well yeah, but she was just passing by. I mean if you're in the same room or whatever."

He's silent for a moment. "So what brought on that little speech?"

"I dunno. It's true though, isn't it?"

"I suppose it is, yeah. One in ten-thousand's a little optimistic, though. I'd say one in a million's closer."

I shrug and drink the remnants of my pop, then lean back and stretch. "That reminds me. Have you met Evan's new girlfriend yet?"

Scott rolls his eyes. "Yeah. Ninety-five pounds with tits like a cartoon character."

"But that's not the best part. Have you seen the way she acts around him?"

"Not really. I only met them for a second."

"It's fucking crazy. She does whatever he wants. It's like she's afraid of losing him already. She acts like he's some kind of movie star."

"Evan?"

"Yeah. It's messed up."

"Has he slept with her yet?"

"Beats me. Probably. He always seems kinda nervous now. I think he's embarrassed by her."

"I don't know about that guy. He's a lucky fuck."

"You treat your friends too well."

He gives me a contemptuous look. "Friends," he snorts.

"What's that supposed to mean? You can't tell me you guys aren't friends."

"Yeah, we're friends. But we're not friends."

"Oh yeah? So who are your 'friends' then?"

"Nobody you know. There's like two people."

"And what's this grand decision based on?"

He ponders for a moment. "If I hadn't seen either of them in a couple of years, I'd give them a call."

"Only two people?"

He nods. I really can't argue with him, but I decide to anyway. "I think that's bullshit. You need people as much as the next guy. You act like you're Mr. Non-Chalant, but at the heart of it you still need companions. You probably wish you were still in a nursery, so somebody could feed you."

That almost gets him animated, but he stops just before opening his mouth and settles back into his chair. His tirades don't bother me anyway, 'cause he has them all the time, but this time he keeps his cool.

"We're just wasting time," he says. "Are you ready?"

"Absolutely, catboy." This time he doesn't even raise an eyebrow, already intent on the job at hand. It'll be the jewelry store today, tomorrow fast-food. You'd be surprised how much money you can make at fast food, if you're not afraid of crowds. We might hit a bank by the end of the summer, if we ever grow the balls. For now, we're just small time.

We throw out our garbage and head out on our way. I slip my hand absent-mindedly into my jacket pocket and around the handle of my favorite firearm. I tried to name it a few times, but nothing ever stuck. Now it's just my gun.

My gun. You've gotta admit, it's got a certain ring to it.