Walked past three Starbuck’s on the way to The Fallopian. I don’t have an issue with Starbucks. I just prefer the Fallopian. And then Greg would say, you just prefer Jenna’s fallopians. Greg’s not very original.

Arrived. Jenna wasn’t there. She worked weekday mornings, so she wouldn’t be. Asked Micha for a latte. Non-fat. No, I’ll add my own cinnamon. I finally figured out that Micha is a guy not a girl. Still didn’t know how to pronounce his name. Only knew he was Micha because his name tag says so.

And Jenna told me once, sometimes we swap name tags. Because one day she was wearing Micha’s.

Went and sat my table. The word “my” in quotation marks. Sometimes when it’s busy other people are sitting at my table and I sit at one of my other tables. I can see the window, part of the sky next to the Carey Building and 4th street. The sky is perma gray. And then Greg would say, it’s not depressing if you think of it like a blanket, all of us cozied in the same bed.

The man in the trenchcoat walked past the window. It’s only four blocks from the theater, there’s lots of foot traffic, it might not be the man but just a man, those kinds of hats getting popular these days, you forgot to add cinnamon, it’s okay, go get the cinnamon, it’s okay.

They were very low on cinnamon. Cinnamon’s become popular these days, for some reason. Maybe the internet. But there was enough. I would sit in front of my little laptop, poke out a poem about rain or China, and Jenna would walk by, and hand me a slip of paper for the wifi password. Refill on your latte? And Greg would say, she’s not flirting, that’s her job? Yes please. Log in and read the news.

There should be a way to go back in time. Find the Greek guy who created the word we get news from and tell him to add another word to it so we understand that news is always bad. There’s no point in reporting that no one died in a plane crash today.

Added cinnamon to my coffee. Knew a girl named Cinnamon once. Didn’t really know her. Knew someone who knew her. Used up all the cinnamon. Should tell Micha. What would he do about it? Right now? He was talking to lesbian. I stereotyped her because she’s heavy set, tattooed, black jeans with chains.

A chill raced up my back. No, not raced. Crawled. It had been going up my back and was halfway up before I even noticed it. I’m not used to them by now but by now they happen so often I don’t notice half the time. Don’t turn around, don’t turn around and look out the window, don’t turn around and look out the window and see a man in a trenchcoat and a hat looking in, lights from inside reflecting tables and chairs and myself over his silhouette.

I banged the empty cinnamon pot into the not empty sugar pot and glanced over at Micha and the lesbian and momentum kept me turning and despite myself I looked out the window and there was no one there but the disappearing edge of the bottom of a coat swirling away. Or a trick of the light or someone else wearing a longish coat, or a man who’d been following me around for a few weeks now for no reason.

And Greg would say, paranoia is a Rorschach test. What did you do. I mean besides kill me.

I didn’t kill Greg because Greg never existed. He was a figment of my imagination. We got into an argument, we said things we shouldn’t have said, he kept saying things that didn’t make sense, tried to trick me, tried to bully me, knew I was right, was arguing just to make me mad, so I let him win by choking him to death because if I was right why did I need to resort to violence.

And his body just lay there crumpled. Called the police. No one answered. Called Greg’s girlfriend. No one answered. Went to bed. The next day it was still raining and Greg’s body was gone and his stuff was gone and his girlfriend’s number wasn’t in my phone. My two bedroom apartment was a one bedroom apartment.

When I fifteen, went with my parents to see Jim’s World. Got there late, not enough seats for all three of us. I was feeling fifteen, said I’d sit by myself. After the movie I couldn’t find them, not where they’d sat, not in the lobby, not in the parking lot. Wondered if somehow I had made them up, this whole time, that I’d created this whole fantasy world where I had parents and they’d driven us to the Cineplex in this blue Ford Escort, the house on Hill street, the yellow siding that had come off in a wind storm three years ago, the backyard where I’d fallen out of a tree and broken my arm when I was 9, the birthday party for my dad when I crept downstairs after everyone had left and there was my dad passed out on the couch holding an empty beer can in one hand and an old year book on his lap and I was 5 and I cried and I wanted to wake him up but he didn’t look asleep he looked dead. And then my parents showed up, said they’d been in the bathroom, did I like the movie?

Sat down at my table again. Me and Micha and the lesbian and a guy in a trenchcoat. No, just the three of us, no else is in here on a Saturday afternoon. One of the others tables that I sit at when my table is occupied has its chair slightly pulled out. Like someone had been sitting there and then left. I can’t quite see some drops of water on the seat. The chair where if someone was sitting there they could look right at me.

My t-shirt isn’t scratchy but almost, my sweater, my jacket. My jeans are a little bit greasy and smell like the diner I ate in yesterday. Last week. Eggs and bacon and coffee without cinnamon and half of it uneaten and cash dropped on the table and a man in trenchcoat by the front window and a backdoor and an alley and I got home and I looked for Greg and then I remember he didn’t exist and then I remembered I’d choked him to death. My socks felt damp in my shoes. My shoes felt heavy, just sitting here, sipping.

Eyes locked on the window. Paranoia, Greg would say, para-annoyed, you’re mad about something that you made up. You come home from the Fallopian and you’re in a bad mood because Jenna’s not there but it’s a Saturday night, why would she be there? She works weekday mornings, not Saturday nights, you’re just mad because you want her to be there not out somewhere, you made it up, you probably made her up to, you just like being gloomy, sad little gloomy Seattle boy, look at you, getting sadder and gloomier as your big old mean roommate rants and raves at you, abuses you with your own description, it’s all in your head, man, none of it is real, there’s no Jenna, not on a Saturday night, you arrogant little shit, you made her up, you probably made me up too, I’m not even real, get your hands off me, you think choking me to death is going to prove I’m real you stupid little arrogant gloomy Seattle coffee shop sitting cinnamon addicted little shit?

But sitting in my shirt and sweater and jacket and jeans and socks and shoes and not moving, I was in a cocoon of warmth and inertia. Outside the cold would try to slice through, would fail against fabric, would settle for tendrils that worm their way in. The lesbian left, I winced in anticipation of the outside coming inside for a second, and then it did, and then it was gone. Took a sip of my coffee. Instead of being too hot it was now too cold. The cinnamon gritty on my lips.

A girl I dated a year ago, before I’d even heard of the Fallopian. Got any tragedies in your past I should know about? I told her no, the truth. Parents dead in a plane crash, that time when you were 13 and you were attacked by a crazed Doberman? You’re weird, I told her, and she laughed, and she said yeah but don’t get used to it or it’s not fun anymore. And then I got used to it, and it wasn’t fun anymore, and we broke up. One of those break-ups where you just don’t bother returning each other’s calls and if you’re lucky you don’t see them around and when you finally do you don’t bother trying to hide because they don’t bother trying to hide and you just ignore each other like you ignore what somebody’s dog did on the sidewalk: the rain will wash it away anyway.

And Greg would say, you’re not seeing her anymore? Mind if I ask her out? Anything I should know? Yeah, she’s sort of weird. But you’ll get used to it. Micha walked past me to refill the pots, the sugar and the honey and the fake sugar and the cinnamon. Saw my empty cup. You want a refill? I did, but I said no thanks.

Wished I had my laptop with me, but it was back home, broken in the fight with Greg. Pulled out my phone from my pocket. Why don’t I delete old numbers. Exes and summer friends and relatives of friends in town for the weekend. Mobiles phones are like yearbooks. I heard the door open, Micha saying sorry man we’re closing up, the squeak of a wet shoe on tile, the outside coming inside for a second, the door closing, I looked up from my phone in time to see a man in a trenchcoat disappearing from view.

That chill crawl-racing up and down my back. Time to go home. Stood up and grabbed my cup, started to crumple it as I walked towards that door, past that chair that was pulled out as little bit with the drops of water on it but now it’s pulled out way more and the seat is soaked wet. Tossed my crumpled cup in the trashcan, walked outside.

Inside wore off and the cold worked its way around my hands, my face, anything exposed. I hunched against the drizzle and rain, scanned the street for trenchcoats and hats. None. Good.

Bad. Just because I couldn’t see them doesn’t mean they weren’t there. If I could see them, I would know where they were, but since I can’t, I don’t know anything.

Two blocks from my apartment I stopped and just stood there, on the corner. Eyes closed, face up to the rain. I let it wash over me, not that there was a lot of it, just a drizzle, really, and not like it was very cold. Not warm, but not freezing. I let it work its way into my collar, down my back, let me feet get a little numb from standing there. Opened my eyes, the blanket’s got some thin spots in it, some of the night sky managing to peak through. I shake my shoulders, look around me, just a few people here and there, a guy with a battered trenchcoat on but no hat. Some young punk, a sci-fi fan or something who stopped caring what people think of him a long time ago and just decided to dress how he thinks bad-asses dress. Laughable.

I got to my apartment building, through the fancy doors, the fancy lobby, past the fancy elevator that doesn’t work. Five flights of stairs. Unlock the door but it’s already unlocked. Inside. Greg’s there, washing dishes. Took off my shoes. My wet shoes next to Greg’s wet shoes.

Hey man, Greg said.

Hey.

Fallopian?

Yeah.

Terry there?

Who?

My girlfriend.

No. Why. Does she go there?

I don’t know. She hasn’t called me for a few days.

She wasn’t there.

How was the movie.

What?

Jim’s World or whatever?

Oh, it was. I don’t know.

You okay man?

Yeah.

You take your Risperidone?

Yeah.

Then how come your bottle’s got the same number as you had yesterday?

Uh. What?

We going to have a repeat of last month?

No.

Am I going to have crush ‘em up and sneak ‘em into your wine again?

No.

Okay then. You want a beer?

No. Why are your pants wet.

I’ve been washing dishes.

And you splashed water on your pant cuffs?

Take your Risperidone, Jimmy.

No. Tell me why your pants are wet.

Take your Risperidone, Jimmy.

Why. And why are you breathing hard. How long have you been home.

Take your- Get your hands off me. Stop it. Stop it!