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The Surpassable Everything, my awesome unfinished magnum opus in which sex is had

Quote:
He will wake up to find himself transformed into a gigantic human being, not as tall as he’d like perhaps but lean and reasonably attractive, except for that stain on his wrist which eludes explanation and those three white hairs on his right temple; they have come twenty years too soon. It will not be light out. Something will brush against his face and it will smell tired, young, warm enough. Once the dream is good and crushed his eyes will open to a slim-waisted succubus pulling her undergarments back up, a frown clear in the dark, and he will say:
—Where are you going?
—I have to go.
—Where are you going?
—Oh.
—What.
—You’re lying on my bra.
—Why are you leaving?
—Would you please get off my bra.
—Come on.
—No.
He’ll hand it over and the succubus will turn her back to him to cover something he has already known and there will be silence. He may fall asleep again. His hand will feel weightless, and shaking it won’t make it better. Pins and needles. He will wake up now. He is awake. She is really leaving.
—Oh, come on.
—No.
—It’s the middle of the night.
—Wrong.
—What’s wrong.
—It’s five in the morning and I have to go. Thanks for everything.
—What are you, a hooker?
—What?
—Never mind.
—Did you call me a hooker?
—Go away.
He closes his eyes, listens to her getting dressed. What did he do. He did nothing. Go back to sleep. Then:
—Wait, what did I do.
—Look, Sören, she says, and sits on the bed. You’re an amazing lover but a poor friend.
—Okay.
—I needed a lover last night. I need a friend now. You can’t be both.
—Why not.
—Because you have nothing inside you but lust and brains. I need warmth.
—It’s five in the morning, babe. I don’t even have lust and brains.
—I’ll see you around.
—Wait, wait, wait.
—Goodbye.
—Wait.
—I gotta go.
—It’s Sunday morning. Sleep a little.
—It’s Monday morning. Goodbye.
—Monday?
Sounds of a door opening and shutting. Ugh. He looks around, the room in its dark disguise. No posters, no trinkets. Memorabilia is limited to a few cups, a little wooden chest, ticket stubs. Outside, ambulances as usual, rushing through empty streets to save the lives of early-morn construction workers, a baker who’s cut his thumb, a hypochondriac with a real case of the flu, an overworked journalist who ten minutes ago collapsed on his computer at the Palmeida Herald’s headquarters and by some freak accident succeeded in breaking his head on the Escape key. It would be typical to mention distant barking dogs but there are no dogs in this city. Everybody seems to hate them. In the suburbs a firetruck stops in front of an incandescent tree set alight by mischievous youths who still haven’t gone to bed. Or maybe it doesn’t. He is falling asleep.
Outside his apartment, the succubus struggles to tie her laces. She has such a flat stomach — Sören’s main reason for wanting her — but it’s still hard to reach down this early in the morning. She can hear him snoring inside, the bastard who yesterday caused her legs to shake for an hour after the deed and then fell asleep without listening to her story about whatever it is she was talking about, even she can’t remember anymore, which makes her even angrier. She wanted to be used and she was used and now she wants to be loved. Won’t find that here. Come on, fellas, let’s get the heck out of this emotional wasteland.

I'll keep posting as I write. If more than three people think this is crap, I will declare it a misunderstood masterpiece.