I have this great idea for a literary style, nicknamed "parallel portraits." I'm actually really excited about it. This is probably just a practice run... I'll get the style down later, I'm sure.



I am unbuttoning my skirt in an over-perfumed restroom with flickering lights. The air is singed with smoke despite the no-smoking sign clipped to the outside of the door. I examine the the carelessly scraped knee and various scratches I have gained. The movement in the mirror catches me by surprise, and as I button my skirt back up, I nervously lock my gaze with that of my reflection.

In a miniaturized apartment on the top floor of a skyscraper complex, a woman fixes herself a fifth gin-and-tonic. She looks forlornly into the eyes of a photograph, knowing now that the glow around herself was not good health but pregnancy. Those twinkles in her eyes were not good cheer but the promise of what was to come. What was supposed to come. What never came. She unthinkingly slips her hand under her own shirt to softly feel across a rigid scar stretching across her abdomen.

I walk outside of the brightly lit diner and towards my car. I realize my keys are locked in the car, resting peacefully in the ignition. I swear and curse myself for my foolishness.

She walks to the fridge and pulls out more gin and ice from the freezer. The ice crackles along with her voice in sharp sobs as she pours the liquor over it and into the pewter cup. She is cursing God for his all-knowing manipulation.