Psychic discomfort was nothing new to Jeremiah T. Kenison. Mental anguish on some level or another was his constant companion, along with a vague impression that someone had cheated him out of something significant. On his more eloquent days, he would bemoan his existence as a martyr in an age with no use for martyrs. Had Jeremiah been born in ancient Greece, he believed, hemlock would have been the death of him. He was fairly sure that the Romans would have crucified him. Any number of eras would have greeted him with accusations of witchcraft and subsequently burned him at the stake--of that he was quite certain. Even had capricious Fate procrastinated his birth so far as to force him to die an old, lonely, and publicly despised beneficiary of any of the industrial or technological revolutions of the last two centuries, Jeremiah would have taken his licks and carried on bravely in the knowledge that at least his life--and death--had made a difference.

Sadly, Fate granted Jeremiah no such favors, and so far he was very much alive. Lonely, sad, and sitting in a smoke-filled nightclub nursing a cheap domestic beer, but alive nonetheless. As an academic trapped in that shadowy nether-realm between puberty and retirement, that he was lonely came as no surprise, at least not to him. The nicotine haze and tantric lighting were certainly familiar enough. So was the beer. He gingerly sipped the urine-colored liquid and decided it was bitter. Only briefly did he consider turning the observation into a metaphor for his existence. In stories--and Jeremiah knew a lot of stories--alcohol was tasty and nightclubs were a predictable setting for life-altering occurrences. That was why Jeremiah liked stories so much. Every story he'd ever read was full of shit.

Through the shadows and smoke Jeremiah noticed a girl approaching his table. He raked his gaze over her body. Nubile figure, long blond hair, cherubic face. He knew, though he could not see, that her fingernails had been carefully painted to match her clothing. Her breasts threatened to escape a red tube-top that appeared to greatly--and unnecessarily--enhance cleavage at the expense of respiration; a short black skirt started inches below her navel and stopped not much lower than that. Jeremiah was forced to admit that she had very nice legs--athlete's legs, smooth and muscular, which gave her hips an erotic sway with every step. Sexy. A small Voice at the back of his consciousness was awakened by the thought. Ignoring it, Jeremiah dispassionately applied the analytic scalpel. Where other men unsheathed that blade only for the laughably simple task of peeling away a woman's clothing, Jeremiah's heavy gaze laid naked their very souls.

He knew her now, he believed, though they had never met. She'd seen a year of college, two at the absolute most. Too young. The pretty ones always were. In his experience, no woman over twenty-one could be so brutally attractive, so strikingly energetic, so painfully naïve. This late in the evening, the sorority sisters who dragged her here would be off in dark corners letting inebriated football players feel them up. Finding herself alone, horny, and more than a little drunk, she had seen Jeremiah, also alone, and now approached, initiating a ritual that was ancient when time began.

What she wanted was sex, but there were forms to be observed, traditions to be acknowledged. Doubtless she would introduce herself with some terrible cliché and by the end of the night Jeremiah would be alone again. Whatever happened between those two events would prove entertaining but essentially meaningless. Jeremiah would call down existential judgment like fire from the sky; her self-deceptions stripped away, the girl would flee and tonight's story would end. Then next weekend--Jeremiah snorted derisively and hummed a bar of "Michael Finnegan." This particular chain of events was getting much worse than old. It was getting familiar.

The girl disappeared from Jeremiah's view for several seconds. He was beginning to wonder how he could have been mistaken when her red tube-top registered in his peripheral vision. Apparently she just didn't want to approach him head-on.

Fitting.

Soon she was standing within arm's reach, but Jeremiah did not acknowledge her presence. He could still reasonably pretend he hadn't seen her, though a part of him long buried shyly suggested that some human interaction would be nice. Maybe it will be different this time. Maybe this one will understand. And, the little Voice probed, she's certainly attractive.

Well, he did enjoy the company of attractive women.

Coldly, Jeremiah unleashed a flood of painful memories into the landscape of his mind. The small Voice retreated, its petitions drowned in the deluge of reality. A smirk graced the corner of his mouth. He took another sip of beer. Triumph, no matter how bitter, was still triumph, and Jeremiah had long ago learned to savor it despite its flavor.

With the dramatic air of someone who has read one too many bodice-rippers, the girl came another step closer and hesitantly reached forward. Her fingertips approached Jeremiah's bare forearm and he imagined the script she was trying to play out. Time slowed to a crawl as she reached for his warm, calloused hands. Jeremiah suppressed a chuckle as his eyes flicked between her smooth, graceful hands and his own rough, freckled skin. The Voice struggled forward unsuccessfully. Six inches. Five. Jeremiah concentrated on his beer. Three inches now. The unacknowledged thought grew persistent, vicious. Jeremiah forced it back. Two inches, then one and a half. One. Her slender fingers were nearly upon him.

Tiny blue lightning crackled as a gaggle of subatomic particles streamed from flesh to flesh. Jeremiah flinched and his thoughts scattered. The girl jerked her hand away from his arm.

"Ow! Sorry about that!" She laughed nervously. Her voice was melodious, sultry in an inexperienced way that Jeremiah found unsurprisingly seductive. "I'm Cami. You come here often?"

There it is. Well, at least she didn't ask my sign. "Every Saturday night for the last six months," Jeremiah replied, still not looking up from his beer. "You?"

"No, it's my first time."

"No kidding." Did she put it that way deliberately?

"Well, I normally don't do this sort of thing... I'm not much of a party girl."

Feed me another one. "So what's special about tonight?"

Cami took this as an invitation to seat herself across from Jeremiah. "My friend turned twenty-one. She wanted to celebrate. We heard this was a pretty cool place. She was pretty insistent."

"That you come?" Well, that was about as Freudian as it gets. The Voice remained as silent as a guilty child.

Cami nodded once, then sighed. "Of course, now she's off in some corner with her boyfriend. You looked pretty lonely. I thought I'd come say hello."

"I see." Jeremiah looked up into Cami's eyes. "Hello. Anything else?" Green. God, I love green eyes.

A look of confusion briefly clouded the girl's elfin features, but was dispelled by something akin to resolve. "Uh, well, I don't think I caught your name."

"I didn't give it. I'm Jeremiah. Yes, just like that godforsaken bullfrog."

This time the look of confusion remained, and when Cami spoke her tone carried a hint of outrage. "I'm sorry, did you want to be alone?"

Unable to maintain his façade of indifference, Jeremiah felt genuine apology creep into his words. "No, nothing like that. I'm not trying to chase you off. I'm just not telling any lies to keep you from leaving. Part of me really wanted company tonight, or else I wouldn't be here." Part of me I wish I could kill, but even so. Somewhere in the back of his skull, the Voice chuckled maliciously. "I learned a long time ago that very little in this world is worth the effort required. Half the time I put in the effort and I still don't get what I'm after. So lately I don't even try."

Cami managed to look simultaneously curious and indignant. "I'm not sure I understand."

That earned her a winning smile. "Sadly, that doesn't surprise me. Sometimes when I'm talking to people I feel like I'm coming through all fuzzy and distorted, like the picture on a TV with bad reception." A self-deprecating laugh escaped his lips. "It's a poor metaphor, but it's the best I've got. Anyways. Would you like me to try and explain?"

She shrugged. Her eyes were still wary, but she seemed to be warming up to him. "Might as well. I'm not doing anything else at the moment. Lay it on me."

Jeremiah grimaced at the innuendo. "Well, think about this. What would you say is the difference between dating and prostitution?"

Cami ventured a smile. "I don't know, what is the difference between dating and prostitution?"

She thinks she's heard this one before. She wants a punch line. Well, as they say, there is a grain of truth at the heart of every jest--and vice versa. "Simply put, prostitution is a much more honest relationship."

Cami's smile graced her full lips a moment longer, but the look on Jeremiah's face sobered her. "I once heard some comedian do an entire bit like this--the difference between a girlfriend and a hooker. But you seem quite serious. Are you really serious? I mean, you have to admit, if you're being serious, it's a pretty weird thing to say."

"Only because of your tastes. Prostitution is cut and dried; some guy wants a little action, so he goes to a prostitute. A price is negotiated. Services are rendered. Both parties leave the table satisfied that they have been involved in a mutually beneficial transaction. Capitalism rules the day.

"Dating, on the other hand, is worse than a one-armed bandit. You buy flowers and hope for a kiss. You buy jewelry and hope she takes you to bed. You mind your manners and watch your weight and lie about your intentions and for what? A chance. A shot. People don't call it 'getting lucky' for nothing, you know. You put in twice the effort and spend ten times as much, but there's no guarantee you'll get anything in return."

Cami's gaze narrowed dangerously, but she hesitated before she spoke. "That--there is so much wrong with that--I don't even know how to begin. It's cynical. It's sexist. It's probably misogynistic and I'm sure it's a dangerous attitude to have. Life is not all about sex. What about intimacy? What about romance? What about love?"

A broad smile lit Jeremiah's face as he raised his eyebrows in surprise. He was growing more animated and actually looking at Cami as he spoke. His beer sat forgotten on the table in front of him. Could I have misjudged her? Can she possibly understand? "First, don't be so quick to marginalize sex. I'd be willing to be that sex generates more revenue than romance, love, and intimacy put together. Statistically, marriages rarely survive without good sex. You yourself came here tonight dressed in sexually appealing clothing. Sex is one of the most powerful motivators humankind has ever encountered.

"But romance? Love? Now we're getting to the heart of the problem. I can go into a relationship with every thought of intimacy and romance. I can and I have. I put forth every effort and without fail I begin to think it's going to last forever. Then it falls apart. I realize that all along, I've had closer, more authentic, more fulfilling relationships with my friends. The only thing I don't get from friends is physical intimacy. So the only thing all that extra work added to my life was a little sex--and I can get that from a prostitute."

"So," Cami challenged, "why are you here? You sound like an evangelist for some perverse cause. Why don't you practice what you preach? Why aren't you out catching some disease?"

"Well, that's one good reason," Jeremiah chuckled. He could no longer suppress his delight--he had not expected to encounter such an exceptional conversationalist at a nightclub on a Saturday night. "Another is that, believe it or not, I wouldn't consider it a very moral thing to do. I don't really support prostitution. It just helps me illustrate a point. So instead of following my idea to its logical conclusion, I come here every Saturday night hoping for company but no longer willing to put forth any effort to that end. I can't win, so there's no use trying."

"So what you're saying is, after making that ridiculous comparison--"

"Well, now--"

"--and talking about sex for the last five minutes--which, by the way, is a very effective way to convince others that you have a clinical obsession--what you've really been trying to explain is that you're a--"

"Man who has lost all hope. Yes."

"Actually, I was going to say quitter."

Jeremiah was stunned. Somewhere at the back of his skull, the Voice was laughing triumphantly. Shut up, he thought to himself. So maybe she understands. She's certainly smarter than I gave her credit for. But so what? That doesn't change anything. "Call it like you see it, Cami. But I once heard something that I think applies here: 'Quitters never win, and winners never quit, but those who never win and never quit are idiots.'"

Cami nodded slowly. Her deep green eyes seemed to be looking right through him.

Jeremiah took a long pull at his lukewarm beer, knowing it would not help his melancholy but not particularly caring. Cami absently fingered the pseudo-granite tabletop as a Wallflowers song filled the air.

The crowd moved purposelessly on the dance floor, tobacco smokescreen lending anonymity to their rhythmic swaying, easing their stress with the reliable efficiency of a tried-and-true narcotic. The air was electric despite the humidity, throbbing like the energy nexus of some esoteric religion, pulsating in time with the cosmos. No one at the bar, no one on the dance floor, no one in the entire building took notice of a nondescript table where two human beings balanced on the knife-edge of possibility.

If they had taken notice, none of them would have cared. This conflict had nothing to do with the fate of the world.

"I don't believe you."

"Say what?" Jeremiah looked up from his beer, surprised to find that Cami was still sitting across from him.

"I said I don't believe you. I think you're lying to me and you don't even know it, because you're lying to yourself. And I can prove it to you."

"Oh?" That would be surprising.

"I'm going to give you two choices.

"Choice number one: you can take me home. No effort required. No heartbreak, no work, no dinners or movies or jewelry. I'll keep you company for the night. You'll feel a lot of things, but lonely will not be one of them. Then I'll leave and in all likelihood you'll never see me again."

Jeremiah's eyes grew wide.

"Choice number two: you buy me a drink and we see how far Fate lets us travel together."

Jeremiah stared intently into his near-empty mug. The Voice in his head was gibbering insanely. "What if I choose neither?"

"Then I'll leave you to your table and to your loneliness. But I don't think you'll pick that."

Jeremiah knew she was right.

"So, what do you say?"

Jeremiah hesitated.

Cami waited.

"Okay."

--Kenneth R. Pike