I'm currently in the process of writing a novel loosely based on my year in Spain, but I don't feel ready to share excerpts from it yet. In fact, even thinking about people reading it gives me anxiety because I'm at the stage I think many writers experience, in which I have no idea if the novel is wonderful or terrible. (Or perhaps it's just mediocre?) But I'll provide updates every so often on how it's going!
I will, however, share an excerpt from the end of a short piece I recently finished. Well, I think it's finished...but that's the thing about writing - the next time I look at it, I'll find something else to change. I haven't tried to publish yet, so I don't want to post more than a small chunk on here. It's called "The End of a Nonexistent Friendship."
“So, why did you decide to visit me in the first place? You must have known this would happen.”
“Yeah, I knew. I just couldn’t resist.”
“And what about me?”
“What do you mean?”
“Never mind,” I sighed, and sat up.
His train would arrive in an hour and a half. We got dressed. We brushed our teeth without making eye contact in the mirror. I looked at the floor. He looked at the sink. The brushes swish swish swished. We had breakfast: stale croissants at a nearby cafe. We ate in silence. I couldn't remember what we'd talked so much about the day before.
"It's nice outside," I said. "Too bad you have to sit on a train."
"I know," he agreed.
I walked him to the station. He texted while he walked. It was his girlfriend he was texting. I asked him if it could wait. He apologized but wrote one, last message before putting away his phone. When we reached the station, he kissed me on both cheeks--those platonic, Spanish kisses that mean nothing.
"We'll hang out again soon," he said.
I nodded, turned to go, turned back, watched him board the train. He blended into the swelling crowd--a short, tan guy among dozens pushing to get on. Then he was gone, and that was the last I ever saw of him.