Nightlife

The day started like his usually did nowadays.  He woke at about 7 o' clock (at night, sadly).  Unable to be completely nocturnal, he suffered through a sunset before he could leave the house (condo, apartment, prison, pad).  Nothing to do.  He looked at a blank computer screen, then an empty fridge (not out of hunger but habit), then the blank sky.  Too many clouds for stars, just an expanse of black which he supposed was some sort of reflection of his soul or something, but only if he lived in a cheap teen novel.  He figured that in the real world, the night sky was just black, prickled with pinholes of stars.  Not anybody's soul.

Since this was his "morning", he decided to take advantage of this opportunity to go out and look like he had a life, a hobby he found himself sharing with most of the youth in the area.  He looked at Starbucks regretfully after donning a black-and-blue sweatshirt and locking his apartment soundly.  He couldn't go in there without being looked at funny for not ordering anything.  Stares pressing in on him, whispered questions, assumptions being made… He did not like facing these things even if they were a product of his own imagination.

Being a vampire put him on edge, and it didn't help that he could no longer ingest his pills.

He gave Starbucks a shrug and a furtive glance, and moved on down the street.  Wig shops, corner markets, trashcans, bowling alleys, shady abandoned buildings.  An alley that looked something like one he knew well, but without those three untouched silver cans.  Nothing he wanted.

There was always the possibility of going to stock up on blood packets, but he had a couple left and he wasn't prepared to deal with spat-out insults or anything else the "good doctor" would have ready for him.  And Conrad still felt he and Hanna were on that stage of friendship where he didn't really want to be the one to call first.  He didn't even know his name, and the idea of showing up at his door unannounced made his mind feel like an intrusion of cockroaches.

There weren't many people out except for hipsters (who smelled of cheap body spray) and deadbeats (who smelled of cigarettes).  Conrad wondered if one group assumed he belonged to the other.

He stopped at a corner that sported a couple of discarded cardboard signs ("Will work for food", "Homeless: need money!") and a busted walk signal.  Deciding that "going out" was not going to work, he turned around to head back to his apartment.  One block.  Further than last night.

His keys jumped out of his hand (no, he didn't drop them) onto the dingy floor outside his door.  Damn.  He leaned down to pick them up and smacked his head on the doorknob on the way back up.  Of fucking course.

Rubbing his head and kicking the wall, he briefly considered working but decided that would not do.  At least not tonight.  He was a little too on edge and the chair was a little too hard for right now.  No, he retreated into his bedroom and flopped onto the black and white (stylish but still comfortable) bed.  Nothing to do, nothing to do, nothing to do.  All night open for him due to his new stupid sleep schedule.

He rolled over and realized his cell phone was in the other room.  That put him on edge (all sorts of things could go wrong; someone could need him right away.) so he stood and grabbed it from his desk.  A voicemail flashed at him and he shrugged and listened to it.

"Hey Conrad!  Hey!  I hope this is the right number, I think it is yeah 'cause it was definitely your voice on the machine—or well, it's not a machine really—but anyway I was wondering if you wanted to hang out!  We're gonna go bowling!  Me and Graham and maybe Veser okay?  Come please?  It's gonna be—yeah, yeah, I know, I'm coming—it's gonna be awesome and Veser just showed up so—OKAY IN A MINUTE—come please?  Meet me at my house in a few if you are right?  Bye!"

Well, besides Hanna's voice being way too loud for the telephone and grating on Conrad's newly sensitive ears, he decided that didn't sound like a bad idea.  Friends.  What a concept.

He grabbed his keys (which did not jump anymore), ran a hand through his hair out of habit, and stepped out the door.

The night passed in a blur of strikes, spazzes, Polaroids, cheap fries, and bad pop music.  Hanna's odd "technique" of bowling with his eyes closed, his zombie friend smiling quietly when Hanna slid halfway down the lane.  Veser convincing Hanna to buy him beer.  Conrad laughing for the first time all week (but after all, it was only Wednesday).  High fives.  Hot pink balls.  Happy times.  Suddenly hours had passed and it was getting near morning.

He went home with a pocket full of blurry photographs and a face full of smiles.

In the kitchen, he performed his best trick of Empty a Pack of Blood Into a Coffee Mug Without Actually Looking at the Blood.  Microwave for 22 seconds.  Instant Vampire Coffee.

His bed was lovely and comforting at the brink of dawn, not a place of boredom any more.  He kicked off his (white, expensive, unnecessary) shoes and sat down, propped up by a pillow and sipping the blood.  He pulled out his earbuds and plugged them into his iPhone.

Conrad had always considered music and sleep to have some sort of a Match Made in Heaven (or at least somewhere pretty nice, like Boston) thing going on.  Things like pianos and Regina Spektor and far-away-sounding filters and tapping a beat on the wrinkled sheets.  Something made him relax in it, made him feel safe and warm.  He sipped the last of the blood and set the mug aside.  Stripping down to his boxers and undershirt, Conrad carefully set the Polaroids and glasses on his bedside table.

He fell asleep curled against his cool pillow to the sweet tones of the acoustic guitar and a love song he still faintly hoped would one day apply to him.

Maybe tomorrow he would get a little further down the street.