Two years ago, Christian had never thought he’d ever seek the services of a harlot, but then again, he had never thought he’d ever feel so isolated. Another leaf scraped against the window, and he shivered out of reflex. Regaining his senses, he glanced upon Gloria once again, who had since fallen asleep. Gloria didn’t typically drift off after a transaction, and Christian felt that the situation had subsequently become a bit awkward, but neither did he feel he wanted to disturb her peace. And so instead, he quietly sneaked out of the bed, put on some jeans and a sweater, pocketed the room key, and fled the scene.

It was dark outside. Dark and cold. Cold enough to make Christian glad he had brought a sweater. The stars from above shined brightly, and he found himself staring upward as he meandered through the city streets, eventually finding himself at a city park with the greenest of grass and sturdiest of trees. A teenage couple lay on a blanket, talking to each other and consuming their youth; a few joggers paced around the perimeter; and an old man picked through some trash cans, and discerned carefully what to put in a shopping cart he had dragged along with him. The old man found a half-eaten burger. Christian wanted to look away, but he kept on staring. Staring at the joggers, the old man in his pity, and the teenage couple who were now under the rush of lust. He stood at his watch post as a vagrant, and took it all in. He felt a sudden, ecstatic rush. He was happy here, because here he was safe. This was a place where no one knew him and nobody cared, and where he stood only as a voyeur of the crowd. Christian turned around suddenly, and there he saw the moon shining bright, the one he had seen in his mind’s eye, exactly as he had seen it, exactly, and in its glorious beauty.

Christian had first met Gloria across the street from a bar. He didn’t know which bar, of course, or even the events that occurred at and around their encounter. He was too hammered that night to remember most of anything that had occurred that day. What remained in his memory was only a vague impression, like that of a dream: two hours later, you may remember having had a profoundly surreal, hallucinatory image, but you don’t remember any specifics. If you do remember some specifics, they are most likely fractured and out of place, like a reflection off broken glass. Similarly, Christian remembered greeting Gloria, he remembered being taken — or perhaps taking her — to a room, and he remembered lying naked with her in a cheap, motel bed. But he’d be hard-pressed to come up with any significant details.

The second encounter was not so accidental. After their first exchange — waking up and feeling the impaling throb of his hangover — and realizing all the money in his wallet had been taken, Christian went to the office, sat at his desk, and found his thoughts being consumed by her essence. When he should have been drawing website outlines, he drew instead the sketchy impressions of her face, of her body, and of her beauty that still remained in his mind. Through the morning, through work, through break, though more work, through lunch, through even more work, and throughout the rest of the day, he became infatuated with her. He told himself his cravings, his heartthrob would soon evaporate away like water left in an open container. But by the following night, as he scoured the city looking for the bar he had been to two days prior, it only made sense to him that he had to, that he absolutely must find her. And so he did.

Christian felt a prodding behind him, which woke him up from his daze. It was the old man, who had apparently finished the burger.

“Staring at the moon, eh?” said the man, and Christian did not respond. “When I was younger, I too used to the stare at the moon in her beauty, wondering about my life and about my future. But you don’t know anything, kid. Trust me. You’ll learn that loneliness is nothing to think about.”

Christian wanted to respond, but couldn’t come up with anything.

The man continued, “See those two teenagers over there?” Christian nodded his head yes. “Do you think they know about love? Real love?” And Christian nodded his head no. “It’s the same with you, kid. To you it feels real, and for all practical purposes, it is real for you.”

Christian gave the man a funny look. The man sighed and brought his eyes to the floor, decidedly ending his sermon. The man spoke once more. “Can you spare some money?”

“Yeah, sure,” said Christian, who began searching his pockets to no avail. That bitch! Christian thought.

“It’s alright,” said the old man, waving Christian off. “See you around, kid. See you around.”

- – - -

Footnote:
^* by means of projection

One of the main struggles Wikipedia grapples with is its toil to become an unbiased resource, as anyone of any political inclination can edit any article at any time. Thus, when I was working on the article for Joseph Stalin, an “edit war” ensued. A week previous to this incident, I had bought a pro-Stalin book, which — although widespread, overwhelming consensus (of which I am part of) is against Stalin — I thought needed to be represented in the article to maintain an unbiased point-of-view. A few other editors disagreed, but eventually a compromise was settled on: the book would be included in a section titled “criticism” but would be strongly negated. The section still stands today, and, arguably, greatly enhances the article, widening its scope and diversifying its opinion pool. Expressing an unusual opinion online, in this case, had a strong positive outcome, and I was giddy with excitement

I was still feeling high and mighty the next day, and so I walked to school with a smile on my face and a spring in my step. This cloud of happiness lasted throughout the entire day, most notably into my last class, World History, in which, it turns out, we were starting a new unit on the Soviet Union, the country where Stalin happens to be from. As she always did the first day of a new unit, my teacher summarized the topic with broad statements, including “Stalin is one of the worst dictators of all time” and “Stalin slaughtered more than 20 million people” and finally with a rhetorical “I mean, who here really thinks Stalin was a good person?” The Wikipedia slogan “Be bold!” flashed through my mind, and quickly I formed a pro-Stalin case, and raised my hand. And at the end of the year when our report cards came in, I noticed my grade had suffered in her class. I had thought I’d maintained a very consistent quality of work throughout, but that just turns out to be me, apparently.

Jim called me that night to compare grades, and I told him about how she had screwed me over. I told him she was a bitch, a coward, and a moron. I told him about all the stupid things she had done in class, and how she was so goddamn ignorant it almost invoked sympathy. I told him all the terrible things I would do to her if I got the chance. Jim swallowed this all, my ranting, and I thought then how lucky I was to have a friend who listened. Eventually, the conversation ended, and I went to sleep less stressed and angered than I thought I would be.