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kept me interested. They kept me from dealing with the lack of adventure, excitement, and romance in my own life. They kept me from dealing.
    Â 
    On my way out of the house, I ran into Mrs. Armando.
    â€œDavid, where’s Amy?” she said in her thick, still-not-adjusted-to-the-New-World accent.
    â€œShe left today, Mrs. Armando. Remember?”
    â€œThat’s right, that’s right.”
    I made a move for the door.
    â€œYou better not cat around on her! She’s a good girl!”
    â€œI know it, Mrs. Armando. I know it.”
    â€œNo catting!”
    I reached for the doorknob. “You know me! I would never.”
    â€œYou a good boy, David—I know that. Oh!”
    I froze.
    â€œThey paint the house today. I forget to tell you.”
    â€œI figured it out,” I said. “Nice guy. Good singing voice.”
    Mrs. Armando chuckled to herself, and I made my hasty exit.
    Â 
    The day that greeted me just past the heavy wooden door was breathtakingly bright and blue. No clouds; the slightest whisper of wind. May had been unseasonably unsettled, with near constant rain. That day, the beginning of June, was finally the first without jackets. And girlfriends.
    I wanted to call somebody then, anybody who would take me away from this house, this reality. Someone who would share the day with me, pull me deeper into it, mark it. Make it worth remembering instead of avoiding. But I couldn’t call Amy—airplane phones were expensive and didn’t have publicly listed numbers. I couldn’t call my best friend, Bryce Jubilee, because he’d moved to Los Angeles in search of something or other two months before. The distance was too great. He was unpredictable at best—since he’d moved, we’d barely spoken. Rather, he’d taken to peppering my cell phone with text messages that were either world-weary and observant or maniacally childish; either “The sunlight is the same here everyday—I feel like I’m beginning to forget how to measure time” or “TITTIES!” He was that sort of friend. I thought about calling the pigeon and asking it to coffee, but I was still sore over what it had done to my poor defenseless basil.
    So instead I trudged around the corner to the café, smiled extra at the woman who called me Small Skim, and then walked back home, back up the stairs, and back to the computer screen that had become my life.
    Out my tiny office window, I could see a deep turquoise sky, perfect for losing a balloon in, for becoming untethered, for becoming lost and liking it. But when I had walked to coffee, past the dog-walking neighbors whose names I didn’t know, past the Korean dry cleaner, the Chinese takeaway, and the Dominican supermarket with the animatronic dinosaur out front that played “Mary Had a Little Lamb” when children dropped in twenty-five cents for their thirty-second ride, I hadn’t felt free. I had felt hunted. Trapped. Alone.
    So I turned my eyes away from the window. I had work to do, though I was sure I wasn’t going to finish much of it today. Amy was gone. This was just how it was now. It was time to get used to it.
    I drank my coffee and watched the cursor blink.

Chapter Two: Quizilla Conquers
Brooklyn
    [from http://users.livejournal.com
    /˜davidgould101 as recovered from cache (journal has been deleted)]
    ---YOUR FULL NAME IS---
    [x] David Rory Gould
    ---DESCRIBE---
    [x] The shoes you wore today: brown Gola sneakers
    [x] Your eyes: brown
    [x] Your fears: dunno—falling?
    ---WHAT IS---
    [x] Your first thought waking up: is it afternoon yet?
    [x] The first feature you notice in the opposite sex: hair, laugh
    [x] Your best physical feature: eyes
    [x] Your bedtime: what’s that?
    [x] Your most missed memory: Amy’s parents’ beach house
    ---DO YOU---
    [x] Smoke: no
    [x] Curse: yeah
    [x] Take a shower everyday: yes
    [x] Have any crushes: not really
    [x] Who are they: ???
    [x] Do