. . .

I don't know what I'm doing.

But I'm going with it.

It was the best of times, it was the worst of times. It was the alpha and the omega, the beginning and the end. It was a Monday. The birds were in the trees, the air was blue and fresh, and avocados were half off at Safeway. Life was good and things came in threes.

James Blackburn, or Jimmie, as he was known to his relatives, particularly Auntie Sal, who hadn't missed a cheek pinch in 34 years of reunions, inhaled deeply of the smoked air. Spring had sprung. Many cliches about young man's fancy flew through the air, and one had lodged itself, quivering, in a darkened passageway in James's brainmatter. Unfortunately, it worked its way to the surface in the presence of James's archnemesis, and James hadn't the presence of mind or the perceptive powers to notice this off the bat. By the time they were inseperable, it was too late. They were inseparable quickly. The times were like that, or, at least, vaguely similar to that.

Cindi St. Clair was her name, as she adamantly refused to change it, as she knew James's feelings on the matter. Never mind that she sounded like a stripper. Her name wasn't the only stripperly thing about her, and she trumpeted her not-so-distant past at James's cheek-pinch-reunions every moment she could, and the clan looked at her with a kind of disgusted awe. Little Lilly had even decided to follow in the footsteps of "The Cinder", as she had been rechristened to her back. Was the name an approbation or a condemnation? No one seemed to know. When The Cinder herself was to hear of it, years later, she herself claimed not to know, and the shadow James meekly agreed with her, as he meekly agreed with everything she said and did, always, in his heart, wondering a) where sweet Cindi had gone and b) why murder was still illegal in that part of the state. She had been picked as James's arch-nemesis for a reason. And The Cinder wasn't saying what that reason was.

It could all have gone differently, and had. The truth of the matter wasn't in the least arch-nemesisterly, but more concave than that. The truth just happened to be a matter of the utmost import, and few of the few who heard of it could deny that with any particular Oomph attached to their many and vacant denials. None of it made any sense, of course. It didn't have to. It wasn't that kind of Monday.

On that particular Monday, however, something new had entered the world. A round, jellylike thing, symbolizing teen angst in the 50's. The symbol was on everyone's lapel, the newest, the hippest thing. Nuns were sighted with it emblazoned secretly in the depths of their wimples. And because of its ubiquity, it quickly lost what little meaning it had come with. It took mere moments for the rebellious youth to sneer at each other for its possession, and mere moments after that for it to become kitsch and therefore hip once more, and after that mere moments more for it to become forgotten, and for the cycle to start once again, as it always did, but faster faster ever faster whirling onward. Still, though, it lingered. Probably the catchy jingle helped. Everything, in those troubled times, had to have its own catchy jingle, and that jingle was catchier than most, and James, as the jingle's designer, but not the symbol's designer, made moderately interesting amounts of money.

His hand roved upward on Cindi's (she had yet to become The Cinder) soft skin, touching briefly at parts she didn't permit him to touch in anything resembling company (the warning signs should have been obvious immediately) and scurrying upward to the curve of back (but there was always the compensations of the very very nice curve-of-back to distract with). She smiled briefly back at him before returning to the ticket counter with the finalizing words of the transaction. "That will do nicely." James thought supremely secret lustful thoughts about the words "doing nicely" and permutation thereof that were visible to anyone within the building that happened to glance in his direction. Cindi did, and, as the trend of his thoughts did mirror the trend of her thoughts occasionally, actually grinned at him. The i-to-er transform was still in the future, and she still occasionally liked to take her pleasures from him, savoring his inevitable destruction. There was a reason for the arch-nemesisterly behavior on her side, as well, and she wasn't telling that one either.

As they entered the plane (ladies first, of course - a silken leash could be seen stretching back from her hand), James stopped. Everything seemed to revolve around him. Was he really here, in this place? What had been taken from him most recently? Why did he have a feeling that his surroundings were more than real, less than present, a glimpse into his own fevered imaginings? He stepped backward, and backward again, a third time hard into the wall. A blurred figure approached him, trying to sound soothing, actually sounding impatient. "Jamesie? What's the matter?" It was a horrific vision from this angle, and he held closely to the angle. "Are you all right?" which came out sounding like "Why embarress me like this, fool? You know the result."

It was all too much. He broke and ran, nonexistant shadows diving out of his way. Walls beckoned him, receding. At last he stood, in a vast and empty nothingness. When he had recaught his breath, he recreated the world.

James Blackburn, or Jimmie, as he was known to his relatives, particularly Auntie Sal, who hadn't missed a cheek pinch in 34 years of reunions, inhaled deeply of the smoked air. Spring had sprung. Many cliches about young man's fancy flew through the air, and one had lodged itself, quivering, in a darkened passageway in James's brainmatter. Fortunately, it happened to work its way outward in the presence of his utter and complete perfection, and they lived long, happy lives together.

Of course, it all could have gone differently. And had.