Mess Hall

I was eating supper in the mess hall, sporting a grotesque hangover that wouldn't go away. I slept through lunch and thought some food might help. Veal, mashed potatoes and chocolate milk were at least doing no further harm. Linda walked up and set her tray on the table. "May I sit down," she asked and smiled.
"Of course you can." I said and winced.
"What's wrong?"
"Nothing. How are you?"
"I'm great."
"That's good to hear. I'm great too."
"You don't look great."
"Thanks, I meant in general. Not today, right now."
"So how about today, right now?"
"Not so good."
She sort of smiled, kind of sadly. "That's what I thought."
Dostoevsky stood in front of a firing squad before his sentence was commuted to four years in Siberia. I wonder what he was thinking about (before and after his sentence was altered)? What goes through someones mind, when they are about to die? What is it like to know the exact minute it is going to happen? My history is not epic, my life is not that tragic. Charles Bukowski said love is a dog from hell. I understand this without thinking about it. Like reflex, or a touchdown pass dropping into my hands after school, my dad's belt on my ass, or the snow falling sideways into my face. And howling like a gut shot dog doesn't make it momentous.
"I heard you received an article fifteen yesterday." Linda said.
"You heard right."
"So how can your life be great in general?"
"It can't. I was lying."
"Why lie to me?"
"To spare you."
"I couldn't care less."
"Now who's lying?
"I used to. I admit."
"How's Jack?"
Linda smiled. "He's fine." She said while she picked up her tray. I lit a cigarette and grinned like a man who has been rode hard and put up wet. "He's a fucking asshole." I said under my breath.
"You smoke too much and you shouldn't in here."
I didn't tell her that I might be in love with her. I saved that for another day, when I felt better. I didn't want to sound pathetic and ain't that ironic.