The Interior Narrator

The stars were shining bright, but the moon was smothered by a heavy blanket of cloud. I took a lungful of cigarette smoke down, held it for a moment and exhaled, the smoke near invisible in the dark garden. My thoughts wandered to her. Oh how my heart ached for that sweet girl. The girl with the heart of gold. I dreamed of her arms around me, and mine around her. I longed for her company more than ever in that moment, wishing I could be warm between her sheets.
If I could be so lucky. Lucky would be an understatement. If only she knew how special she really was, but I guess that could be considered a blessing in a world overcrowded with self-centered girls, every one a starlet, a photographer, an aspiring model. I found it funny how these types claimed to enjoy such fine things in life, like credible literature or in-depth art, but in reality they were some of the dullest people I have ever met. I went back inside and killed every light apart from the bedside lamp. Moths fluttered about and bumped into the bright bulb, their wings creating a faint buzzing. I thought moths didn’t make sound when they took flight? Maybe it was another nocturnal insect. I caught sight of the culprit, a large black beetle type thing crawling up my desk. It looked a little sinister, like it had some devilish plan to do me in for good. It flew off and I got into bed, put a record on and got comfortable. My thoughts strayed again. Maybe I’ll be alone for the rest of my life. Worse things could happen. At least I always had the pen, sweet music, and the bottle for that matter. I had downed several glasses of wine earlier, starting over dinner, then dessert, and finally polished off the remaining bottles while everyone else was reminiscing over old wedding photographs. Oh sweet nostalgia. I had wandered about, slugging away at my glass, occasionally contributing to the conversation or pulling out a long forgotten Kodak memory of my own. I walked over to the stereo, placed a 45 on the table and lowered the needle. Nobody seemed to notice. After I had managed to exsanguinate all the red from the room I retreated outside to the garage where my sleeping quarters were located and got a Peter Stuyvesant from the box (Lucky Strike is my regular choice but the corner store has not got the best selection), headed back out side and lit it. And that leads us back to the beginning of this paragraph.