Fun and games. I have a friend; a friend named James. He is very good-looking, also very confident. The ladies like him, is what I’m saying. They have a nickname for him. “James,” they say. “Fun and games.” Because it rhymes you see. It’s cool. My name itself does not rhyme with anything cool.
What’s your idea of fun and games? I’m guessing that all these girls are fucking James, but what would I know? That’s a place where I’ll never be; me, with my bad name and my lack of confidence.
…I sit here, staring out at the courtyard, drinking wine at 10:20 a.m. Is this an idea of fun? I’m trying to write a short story, but I’m failing. James isn’t a real person, by the way. I made that up. I made that all up.
So this is my idea of fun and games. It’s snowing here. There’s a barren tree in the courtyard whose branches I stare at. I see a stray cat, down by the garbage cans. It’s stray, but it’s still trying to have fun; it’s batting around an acorn from one of the trees, or maybe a rock: it’s hard to see up here. It’s playing, anyway.
“What do you do for fun?” What a terrible first date question. But what do you do? This is what I do. I write stories, and lie, and turn the lies in for money. It’s not great, but it’s something. And you? What do you do?