Massapequa

Massapequa. Massapequa. Massapequa. The word bounced around Wills mind and, like a stubborn tenant, refused to leave. It gave him a tense feeling in his chest and an anxiety that caused his breathing to become stifled. Like an obsessive compulsive who had to close the door a thousand-andfour times before they could comfortably leave the house, Will continued saying Massapequa in his head in different variations and had been for the past three days now; the name of the little hamlet of Nassau County, New York, never before visited by the young man himself, had burrowed itself deep into his mind, taking command and forcing him to repeat it over and over until it drove him mad. This linguistic fixation, so consuming, was a recurrence in Wills life that could come in many splendidly unbearable forms; it could be something beyond language, like the mental image of a yuppie businessman laughing away his psychosis as he stands on the edge of a building. More often, however, it would be a string of words so eloquently composed out of thin air and inhaled by his polluted lungs that it made him believe an invisible muse must follow him around and oft whisper his next idea into his ears. Whatever the thing, it would stay in his mind, and from that sight or sentence and anything in between, we could create a whole world around it. The yuppies last moments before a pitfall off the Chrysler Building would become a scene in a story about the plight of those who sell their souls to sell stocks and make a sweet take from it. The sentence would become the opening line to a novel that would make his publishing house bosses look at him with that arched eyebrow and Luciferian grin and say, Not too shitty, kid. In short, it meant the on-set of a new writing, which nowadays was ludicrous. He repeated the word in his head and quietly out loud, flirting with different pronunciations at each repetition, as if a perfect inflection existed that would result in some meaningful epiphany. Massapequa. He turned his head to the street at his right with worried eyes, craning his neck upward and scratching the troublesome stubble just beneath his chin. The cars breezed by at a city-safe thirty miles-per-hour as Will slumped in his wicker-and-steel chair at an outdoor caf. It was a new type of coffee place for Will, who was so use to seedy

Brooklyn joints that featured black-lipstick wearing baristas, unlit corner tables, and reading lengthy tirades on bathroom doors about governmental conspiracy theories lifted from online videos. This new shop, though, were it analyzed by literature scholars, would represent the purity of the W.A.S.P.-y clientele, what with its white tablecloths and white-painted railings meant to keep out the lowly sidewalkers from the seated upperclass patrons of the caf, entitled La. Will wondered what the scholars would make of the name of the place. Ignorance of the French language by the Ivy League owners? Selfaware irony? Whatever the case, certainly the minimalist theory critics would love it. Will had taken this place up because it was closer to his new apartment than his old haunts, where he had once took advantage of free napkins and stolen Bic pens to write what was universally acknowledged to be a promising first novel. He never fully understood what that meant. His mother assured him with smiles and tears of joy that it was the best news he couldve gotten, as if promising was the peak of his potential. By that logic, the future of good or great novels that lived up to his promise could never be achieved, because every novel published would contain new promises that would lead to, well, yeah. Neurotic as any good New Yorker should be, Will would stammer these problems about the definition of promising to his father, a reformed hippie and current real estate maestro, who told him to calm down and buy a better place with all the money this disappointingly promising novel brought him. He followed his advice, and was now a Manhanttanite whose overblown angst about little details made him more at home than before when he resided in the cynical, detached borough of Brooklyn. Will was distracted, and purposefully so. Thinking of Massapequa would mean depression and hours of wasted blathering, and yet, there he was, at the caf with his child-sized netbook laptop. Three novels in and financially stable, Will, a witty, relatively well-built twenty-nine-year-old lad, was wondering what to do with the remainder of his life in a world that found the talents that made him rich to be wasteful and no longer needed. In a world with no more stories, Will was worthless; and with nothing left in the creative well left to tap, he knew Massapequa, whimpering for attention like a puppy that needs to be let out, could turn into nothing, which made its persistence in his mind absolutely intolerable.

More iced tea, sir? The waiter asked, appearing suddenly by Wills side while he was in his own world. I hadnt even realized I was drinking iced tea, Will replied. Could I have a vanilla cappuccino instead, please? As big as possible. Of course, sir. Anything else? Any scones available? Plenty. Nice. Could you bring whatever your definition of plenty is over here. The waiter smiled, nodded, and was off and away. Will assumed the scones here were likely overpriced bits of dull pastry barely the size of an Oreo, but he needed to continue distracting himself from his dilemma, and food and drink by the plenty would do just fine after the drab monochromatic surroundings of the caf lost his interest. Massapequa. Pequa. Massapequa. When he walked in, he was concerned if his Buffalo-checkered shirt and offwhite khakis might offend the conservative blue-bloods at La, but as Massapequa entered back into his head, he couldnt help but put those self-conscious thoughts aside while his inability to ever write original material again paraded itself into the forefront of his concerns. He leaned back in his chair, running a hand through his unimpressive, dusty brown hair. Massapequa! He cursed, not bothering to whisper. The octogenarian fogies seated nearby likely heard his outburst, but his cares of disturbing their quiet brunch were non-existent in respect to his current careerirrelevance. The news had sprung on him like a venomous snake, attacking his very livelihood out of nowhere. The reports wrote about a top-secret supercomputer co-financed by the major publishing houses and built to accumulate all human creativity produced. One day, it finally spat out the results declaring nothing original could possibly be made ever again. It spoke like gibberish to Will, a believer in endless innovation, boundless ingenuity, and above all, the infinite imaginarium of the human, well, imagination. The idea that people had run out of the nectar of newness was unthinkable, yet, as determined by the computers calculations and four-hundred-thirty independent audits and investigations, completely accurate and irrefutable. Mankind was now damned with remakes, reboots,

and rehashed material for eternity. This news had come just a few months after the release of Wills third novel, An Example of Brilliance Ruined, which had been presented by Oprah as her newest addition to the Book Club. His appearance on her show to promote the book was the second-lowest rated episode ever, behind the one before she gave every attending audience member a retired sled dog. At least you beat those mutts, right? Always look on the bright side of life, Wills father had said, trying to comfort his son, before humming the rest of the Life of Brian tune. He had been called a sell-out by his friends and drinking buddies in Brooklyn for signing with a large publishing house, but flicked them off in a bravado display, confident in the belief that leaving them for greener pastures would be the best for him. After all, he had two good story ideas in his tank, with surely more to come, and he would make new friends, richer friends, who took showers and paid their taxes. Had Will been told at the time of his Brooklyn exodus about the possibility of the end of stories, he wouldve belted out a long laugh; were he then informed that the money he made from three novels would have to last him the rest of his friendless, swanky, Manhattan-caf-lounging life, it would have made him choke on his frozen pizza dinner. Fate being what it is, and being a grand appreciator of its literary functions in his works and others, Will could only smile with bemusement at his situation: adrift on an island after having cockily burned all the bridges to the mainland. Excuse me, but could you pluck me one of the flowers from that bush beside you? a womans voice asked of Will. Will turned to her in surprise, again caught off-guard due to his tunnel-vision inducing thoughts. He stammered a bit as a delayed response until his brain caught up to her request. Yes, of course, he replied with a nervous smile. I dont need all of the stem, just a bit of it will do, she instructed as Will fumbled with the plant. He snatched off one of the flowers and gave it a look over: White petals with a purple middle. He contemplated for the faintest of seconds whether to try and call it by its name and appear knowledgeable of it, but being that the only flower he knew everything about were daisies, he relented and handed the flower over to the woman. Oh, lovely. Thatll do perfect, she admired, looking the flower over as well, and then

placing it in her hair with great delicacy, biting her lip as she went about it. Upon finishing, she let out a victorious huff and said to Will, My day is made. Thank you Will, his nerves leaving with haste. Glad to help Lizzy. They smiled, and before an awkward silence could butt his way into the introduction, Lizzy explained herself. I was just over there reading, she explained, pointing at the far end of the outdoor section of La, and I finally looked over my book and saw these adorable Cape Daisies in the bush. I guess Im just a dork; I love using them to complete my outfit. My ensemble, She said with a faux-fancy accent. As Lizzy laughed at her goofiness, Will ridiculed himself mentally for not noticing the flower was a daisy, his supposed specialty. Before he could ask her what book she was currently reading, Wills waiter returned with a large basket of enormous scones and what could only be a 36-ounce porcelain vase of vanilla cappuccino. Your brunch, sir, the waiter announced, knowing just how comedic the visual was and delivering the perfect line to compliment it. Even though it was at his expense and made Will look like a glutton of Jaba-like proportions, he privately applauded the waiter, who bowed and slinked away. Now with his table overrun with a heaping of delicious desserts and a pail of cappuccino in front of him, Will, at a loss for the right words, said the wrong ones. So, what were you reading? Not letting this moment pass them up, Lizzy ignored the question and focused on Wills food. Quite the little meal you have. Oh, this? Yeah, I suppose, um, its a bit more than I expected. Yeah? she said with a suddenly condescending and indignant tone. Makes me think of all the impoverished children about the globe who would run twenty miles just for a pint of water and a slice of old bread. We should be so grateful to clear a little caf of its scone supply and ingest a slop-bucket of its coffee, but I bet you didnt even give the briefest of thoughts about it, did you? Awkward Silence, poking his head around the corner in anticipation, finally saw his cue and strutted on over, taking his place between Will and Lizzy and doing a celebratory dance that lasted until Lizzy cracked a smile that broke out into a flood of laughter. Will

sat there, tensed up, afraid to swallow the knot that had developed in his throat. He watched in confused fright as Lizzy chortled in delight before him, uncertain of what to do next. This was a full-on outburst of hilarity on Lizzys part, including snorts and tears. While in her state of mania, Will gave her the same sort of glance over he gave the daisy: smooth brunette locks with shades of light blonde sneaking out; a clear face that showed either good genetics, good use of facial cleansers, or both; and a style of dress that harkened back his memory to his days in Brooklyn surrounded by the flowerchild-hipster girls of the modern age. Yet, despite this acute inspection, she seemed legitimately unselfconscious (as noted by her aloofness toward the neighboring octogenarians scowling at her rude chortling). Not only that, Will sensed she possessed an intelligence and humor that those hippy girls of old had never known, what with their groovy cynicism toward every topic under the Williamsburg sun. Unlike the daisy, Will wasnt afraid to try and classify Lizzy, but he couldnt find the right words, so instead this time he just said nothing. Im sorry, so sorry, Lizzy said, finally coming down from her high. I was only kidding, I hope you know that. I just finished a gargantuan BLT pita myself, with ranch of course. Extra ranch. Wow. Um, yeah, you had me petrified there. That was startling, Will replied, genuinely laughing. I apologize for the scare, I really do. She then glanced at her miniscule bracelet-watch for the time. Anyway, I have to hurry off. Ill leave you to your scones and such. And thank you again for the flower. It was a pleasure to meet you, Will. Likewise, Lizzy. The two shook hands; Will gave his you are a very interesting person who is seeing a rare smile of mine smile, while Lizzy gave a wide, toothy, its nice to meet someone at this caf who isnt a prickish snob smile. With that, Lizzy left to her table, threw down some money, turned to Will for a goodbye-wave, and disappeared. Looking down at his packed table, Will knew four pounds of scones and a wash basin of caffeine was not going to be enough to keep his obsessive thoughts at bay. Staring at the dreary eggshell-colored ceiling of his bedroom, Will was trying to let his mind go. He had gone so far as to put on an old vinyl recording of whales mating, owls

mating, and Kodiak bears mating; it once belonged to his father, who now viewed it as Woodstock waste that could only be enjoyed by stoners and individuals trying too hard to be alternative. It saddened Will to come to terms with the fact that his views were lining up more and more with his father every day. Once the archetypical wayward son in Brooklyn trying to get in with the arty crowd and espousing his love of Bukowski and Warhol, Will had spent much of his time there writing trashy poems about hedonistic calls that didnt actually exist or that he had let go to voicemail. The truth then was that Will just wanted to rebel like his father had once rebelled, and though he was a talented writer who graduated from SUNY Buffalo, poems were clearly not his forte. He had allowed his irrationality to get the most of him and lose six years wallowing in the dank lofts of anti-hygienic anarchists and neon-everything wearing Connecticut kids whose identical psychological misgivings had also brought them to the borough. He couldve produced two or three novels during those initial post-graduate years, but chose to be counter-culture with poetry that read like a teenage girls Facebook status. Though praised and given standing finger-snap ovations every Friday at Sayerfield coffeehouse, Will knew in the pit of his stomach that if he ever got published, none of these rag-draped do-nothings would buy a copy or even support him anymore. Hed be the greedy moneygrabber who cared more about paying bills, surviving on FDA-certified food, and prepping for a potential family by having a 401(k) and a share of his assets drifting around in the stock market. The day he finally knew he no longer wanted to this delusional-rebel life was when his father took him out to lunch at a Burger King in Downtown Manhattan. His father, as ever, was frank. Will, do you really want to be a bearded failure the rest of your life? At least shave and be a respectable failure. Instead of being a bum earning a steady paycheck of respect from your worthless peers for shit you hate and know is shit, wouldnt you rather wear clothes that dont need a date with your mothers sewing kit? Or how about making loads of cash that can go to charities as well as toward your kids future, all while building a reputation for yourself thatll extend far and beyond the fleeting memories of Grand Street? Christ, kid, Ive read your good stuff. Your old stuff from back in college was incredible, and I mean that. Why does their opinion matter so much that its better than your own? Goddamn, you know? Pass me those chicken fries. Eating his Whopper, his delicious, over-processed, salt-soaked Whopper, Will knew his

father was right. Will was stubborn fool who couldve just as easily spent another halfdozen years in the brick-and-mortar Hell of Brooklyn had his father gone about his speech in an I told-you-so-manner or arrogantly denounced Will. Yet, his father was an intelligent man, bearing the physical signs of deep thought with his curious moss-green eyes and furrowed salt-and-pepper brow; Wills father had smartly articulated his argument in such a way to lead Will to the conclusion that Brooklyn was a bad fit for him and Will knew that he himself wanted out, and that he wanted to live among the canyon of skyscraping, shimmering towers. All Will had needed was to hear the words from someone else; even if it was the person he had initially rebelled against. That meal at Burger King effectively reestablished the respect Will had for his father. From there, he went on to shave his long goatee and write three well-received novels before finding out his career was kaput. Will wished he couldve been back in Brooklyn when the news reports came in about the end of originality. He could only imagine their apathetic hearts breaking; their hopes shot down like a Japanese Zero over the Pacific, vowing to continue writing dribble after dribble in imitation of Allen Ginsburg. Will smiled. He then thought about how he hadnt thought of Massapequa for hours, until realizing his realization had undone him, at which point his smile vanished. Will spent the next month irregularly checking in at La, trying to maintain a casual demeanor about his visits so as not to create any suspicions among the staff there. He couldnt bear to feel the looks of judgment every time he walked in; knowing that the waiters and waitresses would shake their heads in pity at this gloomy schmuck hoping that girl he talked to would be here. His anxiety, as always, overwhelmed his meekness, leading him to put on a grand performance as the aloof customer just coming for cappuccinos and scones every now and then, but inside Will was desperately hoping to run into Lizzy again. 86% of the time, he acquired the same waiter as the day of his scone-debacle (a statistic calculated thanks to the time he had to kill on his laptop while waiting), and he began to develop a rapport with the guy, whose name he learned was Marshall. Marshall was a rarity in that he was Greek and always clean-shaven (my facial hair actually comes in patchy, believe it or not, so I just said fuck it, Ill stay smooth, right?) and that he had

been a television writer until being let go by the program after the shit went down, as he called it. My bosses figured, Okay, if its been scientifically-proven that there can be nothing left but rehashing old tropes and formulas, why do we need to kid ourselves anymore with all these hack writers? So, myself and four others were tossed out on the streets by the end of the week. I mean, we all knew that when we were hired to write for a primetime television show that there wasnt going to be much creativity going on, but we all figured we could inject original bits and pieces here and there and make it our own. We werent kidding ourselves by claiming to be a crack-squad of Charlie Kaufmanns or anything, but we thought we still had something to offer. Now they got one person on the show doing all the writing, if thats even what you can call it. The ladys basically taking old Will & Grace scripts and changing the names and setting. Boom, shows written. Its all nuts, man. So do you miss it? Miss what? Writing. I still write, Marshall said matter-of-factly. Why would I stop? The waiter looked over and saw more customers walking in that needed to be taken care of. Hey, Ill catch ya later, all right? Let me know if you need any more scones. Will watched him walk from the outdoor venue to the blindingly white interior to greet a preppy family of five. As he observed Marshall put on his waiter face to conceal his disdain for those he seated, Will wondered how someone could still write these days, knowing what they know. Will was a believer in the value of surprise endings and being kept in the dark about story details, despite all his former college English professors dismissal of their value. Holding this conviction, Will felt that continuing to write in a world of no more stories was like watching The Sixth Sense after having seen before; its not as good as it was before. Once the threshold was crossed into this new world, the experience could never create the same waves of passion, or the swelling of anticipation in ones stomach as word after word flew from thoughts to fingers and onto a digital screen, or the passive-aggressive braggadocio that comes from having written something Tom Wolfe referred to as nice to have. Massapequa. MassapequaMassapequaMassapequa

Will was pacing his modernist-themed living room in agony. Okay, okay, maybe I dont go back anymore. What if I just stop? I never go back. I hate the place anyway and shes not showing up, so whats the loss? If this were to work out, like, through Fate or serendipity or something, she wouldve come to the place by now. For all I know, that was the one and only time for the rest of her life that she went there. Right? Now let me backtrack, what if Im overanalyze- okay, yes, I am overanalyzing this, but never mind that. You might be thinking, But Will, she came to you for a flower from the bush when that exact same bush extended all the way to where she was sitting. Why didnt she just grab one from nearby? Oh wait, its because she thought you were cute. But, but, what if that were the case but she lost interest after I got scared by her joke like an idiot because I was too nervous to notice her facetious tone? I mean, fuck, man, why cant a woman like her just, for once, come up to a guy like me and be straightforward about her intentions? Hey, thought youre good-looking, want to go get drinks? YES, I damn sure do! And yeah, I could improve myself and get a backbone and do the same with her, but women these days are split between the camp that likes aggressive guys and the camp that likes the ones that are shy and cant make the first move; and theres no way to tell whos in what camp. Obviously Im the latter because Im afraid of failure. Yeah, there it is, Ill admit it, Im afraid of failure! Its the same reason I obsess over the details of compliments about my work, because any ambiguity in a persons words makes me think theyre just being nice and that my novel is actually mediocre. Oh, it was interesting? What does that mean? Just tell me its good and that my metaphors are relevant throughout and well-written! And the idea of failing with Lizzy; the thought of being turned away and having to walk back to my stupid, uncomfortable wicker chair and stare at my ridiculously small laptop like a loner? Terrifying. Its a horror film in my mind. I. Cant. Handle. That. So, fuckinGod, I dont need this; I already have Massapequa ruining my life. Now this girl? Why? How does this happen? Out of breath and hands on his hips, Will waited for an answer. Unsure of how to respond to this neurotic diatribe, Wills dog, Abe, just continued lying

on the floor, chewing on his rawhide. Abe, Will called. The young French bulldog rose his head up from his chew toy and licked his perpetually frowning frog lips. Wanna go outside? Will asked in an breathless, high-pitched voice. Abe cocked his head and then got up to his feet, beginning to spin in tight circles, inelegantly working his frenzied self to the door, panting and waiting for his owner to attach his leash. All right, lets go, Will said. Sorry about going Goldblum, by the way. You know how Manhattan brings out my inner-Woody Allen. Will attached the hemp-and-bead leash to his manic companion and opened the door to his apartments hallway. But seriously, how does this happen? Concerning things incapable of being conceived, Will could not decipher the reason he continued to drag along his laptop to the caf, as if his obsession with Massapequa was going to once again, in time, lead to a breakthrough for a new piece. His mind was unable to let go of the fact that this was a chip on a windshield that would never expand and shatter. Still, his Word Document remained open; its unnatural whiteness a perfect complement to the cafs decor. Letting the screens image burn into his retinas for awhile, Will posed a hypothetical question to himself: If Massapequa did lead to something, would he pursue the idea, even in the face of overwhelming evidence that the idea had been done before? He didnt know, and his chest felt tense again because of the uncertainty. Will became afraid that if Massapequa remained in his head forever that hed go mad in short time. The constant teasing of possibilities that could never be fulfilled would make for an insufferable existence. Why would his mind do this to him? Will looked up and saw Lizzy standing next to him, looking at his laptop screen. He jumped in fright while simultaneously apologizing. I scare you even when I dont try, huh? Lizzy said, moving her hair behind her ear. May I have a seat? Of course. Yeah. Yup. Will responded, gathering himself.

Lizzy sat down and slouched back in her seat. Today she had some sort of orangeyellow flower tucked away in her hair, purposefully contrasting with her black tank-top and deep blue jeans. She looked at Will with squinted eyes and, with a tone Will couldnt precisely put a finger on, posed him a question. Why havent you come here on Mondays? Im sorry? Was I supposed to? Well, over the last month youve been here every other day of the week at least once, with the glaring exception of Monday. Monday, as you will recall, was the day you and I met. Okay Will said, unsure of what direction this interrogation would take. Are you avoiding me? Was it my joke about the impoverished children? I didnt mean to sound so cruel but I thought you knew I was kidding. I thought I told you I was kidding? I did say I was kidding! Will was enamored by this sudden conversation and Lizzys handling of it, especially since her perception of the past month was so incorrect to his actual motives. Will smiled. How do you know what days Ive been here? Lizzy sighed and looked embarrassed at the question, which confused Will since she was otherwise being quite straightforward. Ive been stopping by every Monday since then and last week I asked whether youve come here since we met. I said, Have you seen a medium-built fella who looks depressed and loves scones? and this waiter told me, Will? Yeah, yeah, he comes here once or twice a week. Never on the days you come by though. Dont know why. Ah, Marshall. Hes right. I havent been here on Mondays because, uh, I dont know. Oh come now, I went through the trouble telling you Ive asked for you and that I keep coming here on Mondays. Do me a favor. Okay, okay. To be honest, I havent asked about you once since we met and I havent come here on Mondays either specifically because of you; but, theres a good reason why. Will, a far better writer than speaker, went on to drolly tell Lizzy how he tried to keep his appearances as casual as possible so as not to appear to the staff to be looking

for her, not appearing on Mondays for the same reason (as seeing her on a different day would make him seem less desperate) and how his shyness and fear of public judgment prevented him from asking about her. His explanation was full of stammering, qualifiers to his behavior, and humiliation, and he couldnt believe he was even admitting any of this to her, but eventually he finished. Sorry. So what youre saying, according to your logic and my actions, Lizzy tried to understand, is that Im a desperate stalker. Um, well Bad start. Speaking of bad starts, had you actually come here the following Monday like I had and we met again, Im willing to guess that one of us wouldve asked the other out on a date. A few days after that we mightve had lunch or a nice dinner somewhere with low-lighting and overpriced food; we mightve kissed and we definitely wouldve gone on a second date because youre handsome, I can pass for pretty with the right lighting and amount of make-up, and were both smart people with a lot to talk about. The second date couldve been a movie or a concert, like the Springsteen one that swung by two weeks ago, and we definitely wouldve had our first kiss, because no one can resist Dancing in the Dark, and were no better. We couldve had sex, who knows. Im not a prude with strong religious values waiting til marriage and I have yet to meet a guy who would turn it down if it was offered to them. Maybe youre different from them, but I dont think so, and I dont mean that in a bad way. Flash-forward to today in this alternative, shouldve-been universe and were holding hands more than were breathing and sitting on the same side of booths in restaurants when were eating by ourselves. Unfortunately, because of our sadly disparate approaches toward courting, none of this happened. Common as these missed opportunities are, Will, theyre tragic nonetheless. You are beautiful. You are as beautiful as I am shy, sad, and stupid. Please believe that. By Lizzys third sentence, Will began to imagine a future with her; and the fact that he recognized parts of her speech as those of his own handiwork didnt hurt his rising admiration for her either. He looked at her in a way that Lizzy knew she had been caught. And youve read my second book, too, given that you just lifted most of that speech from Chapter 6 of it.

At least I didnt use the big, final line, You cant sit and let love pass you by, praying it all works out without doing a thing about it, Lizzy recited, playfully teasing. Sappy, I have to say, but Im sure when they develop it into a film, Katherine Heigl will really nail that line. Ouch, Will laughed. No, it overall is a great novel, though! I loved it. So howd you know it was me? I had watched your appearance on Oprah last year. Well, that, and when an esteemed author such as you frequents anywhere, people take notice. Esteemed is a joke. Even if I was, my job is extinct now. Im a well-respected dodo, at best. Over the next two hours, Will and Lizzy talked at a rapid-fire pace, interrupted only by Marshalls refilling of their drinks and his mile-wide look at you two all witty and bantering like lovebirds smile. They spoke at length about Wills novels and Lizzys openly unconventional personality; Lizzys fetish for flowers and Wills depression about his future; Lizzys interest in Netflix Instant Watch and Wills obsession with the word Massapequa. Whoa there, did you do some research on me too? None. I figured typing Lizzy into Google wouldnt yield very narrow results. But, I grew up in Massapequa. Went to Massapequa High. You really didnt know? Really. Maybe, Will, you are actually a desperate stalker. Will took a moment within his own world to smile, then laugh, then double-overat this news. Burned so badly before by Fate, he thanked God that the fickle literary device finally went in his favor, and brought to him Lizzy from Massapequa; his two monthlong obsessions, giving solid middle fingers to long-shot odds, colliding together. Had he tried writing something like this into a novel, he wouldve been crucified by his editors and publishing house for employing such a sentimental, ironic twist, to which Will wouldve corrected them and pointed out it was merely a merry coincidence. Life is definitely more interesting than any story, Lizzy observed, still surprised at the coincidence. Especially your stories, Will.

After that day, Wills appreciation for Fate cemented itself forever in his life as a married man who never wrote a fourth novel, but lived to be okay with that.