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I thumbed the coin over to its reverse. Nebraska. "What a fucking joke," I muttered to myself, not expecting anyone to hear. I tossed the quarter at the little compartment where you keep the change in your car, and missed. Of course I didn't expect anyone to hear me, I was alone. But there she was, right there at my open window, a bag of food in her paw. I made an attempt at a "thank you," but I stumbled over my words. She glared at me as I took the bag. She must've heard my Nebraska comment. Whatever. At some point in my life, that would've bothered me. It would've really bothered me that someone thought negatively about me, but those days are over. She deserved it though, had it been directed at her. Maybe not her, but her as an extension_of the establishment that employed her. I had to pull up to the trashcan because the chicken tenders I ordered weren't _ready by the time I had made it to the window. Yeah, I'm a kid because I got chicken tenders from a place that primarily serves _real_chicken, but try to stop me. I like chicken tenders.

I kicked off my shoes as I came through the door and looked down as I splayed my toes on the floor. I sort of have a thing for footpaws. Yeah, it's gross, but whatever. After I ate, I turned on the TV and my Xbox, hoping to find something on Netflix or HBO, but nothing suited my current mood. I put in the new Battlefield, because yes, I'm a huge fucking nerd, and invited a friend to a party while I waited on the game to start up. "Hey Andrew."

"Hey." I didn't particularly like Andrew, and he sort of had a lisp. I guess I sort of have a lisp too, but you only notice it if I point it out. Anyways, I talked to this Andrew because he was someone to talk to, and we shared some interests. "What's up."

"Nothing really--same old same old. What about you." That's about as real as the conversation ever got with this guy. Granted, I was talking to some dude I had never met or seen before in real life over an Xbox Live party, what do you expect, but still.

For once I let him fly the plane, but we were only airborne for a minute or two. "Great job you fucking faggot."

"Looks who's talking," he retorted, playfully. What an original fucking comeback. I hated when he said that. "Look who's talking." He thought he was so fucking clever and relevant, despite the fact that I say "faggot" ironically. This, combined with my fantastic internet, made for a less than enjoyable "gameplay experience." I turned off the console; I played too much anyways.

I wandered over to the bedroom and collapsed face-first into bed.

It still smelled like him, a little.

_ Nebraska. What a fucking joke._

There's nothing_there. I mean, there's plenty, but _Christ is there a lot of boring shit. There were a few pleasant spots here and there, mostly downtown, but living was such a hassle. Sweltering heat in the summers, subzero temperatures in the snowy winters. Not to mention how isolated it was; here's where the "Christ is there a lot of boring shit" part comes in. There's Omaha, where I used to live, and Lincoln, about an hour out. Save for that there's nothing. A whole lot of grass. It gets prettier out West, but it's lonely. So, first chance I got, I went to Washington. I heard it was okay out there, but mostly I just wanted something new. Yeah, the winters would get even colder, but I look good in a sweater.

I metabolize well. One day, that's gonna run out and I'm gonna weigh three hundred pounds, but I'll probably just shoot myself at that point. Anyways, because of my stellar metabolism, I feel less guilty than most about eating fast food multiple times a week. Wait, you choose to eat fast food every week? Yes, I do, it fucking tastes good. But, as we've discussed before, I'm a sucker for chicken. Chick-fil-A may or may not have been on a deciding factor on where I wanted to live, but alas, I found myself within walking distance of a Chick-fil-A, and I found myself walking there at _least_once a week. And yes, I get the fucking chicken nuggets, I'm a kid, but try to stop me. I like chicken nuggets.

At this particular_establishment, however, I found myself being, ahem, _helped, by a rather handsome wolf. His fur was dark, matte, almost like charcoal, but you could tell it was brown because by the time the fur made its way to his muzzle it had faded to some sandy color. It was always "his pleasure" to take my order, but I'd guess his mantra became true by the third time in a row I had come in. On a Saturday. At seven in the evening. When I stepped through the door he looked up at the sound, his ears preceding him by a moment, and smiled upon recognizing my dumb face. His ears turned red while he attempted to recompose himself, but when I returned the smile--involuntarily--he gave up. When I got to the counter we stood in silence, only for a second or two, before we both spoke at the same time. We chuckled, and he recited my usual order, as a question, and I nodded. By the fourth week his phone number snuck its way onto the bottom of my receipt, and by the sixth he was in my bed, screwing my brains out.

He was only the second guy I had had a relationship with. Only a few of my fellow Nebraskans hated me for being a fag, but the sea didn't have too many fish in it. I was involved in the fine arts (which helps), but I only dated one guy, for about a month, and it ended right before he put his dick in me. Excuse me, right before he was about to put his dick in me. Things were getting pretty hardcore--for a junior at least. Shirts off, flies unzipped; I had tasted just about every corner of his muzzle when he halted me. He wasn't really_gay, don't worry. Apparently, he just _thought he was during the whole time we were grabbing dinner and watching movies and kissing and taking each other fucking clothes off. I guess I can't blame the guy. His_parents never would have accepted him, and I guess the last chance to start suppressing your homosexuality is the moment right before you fuck your boyfriend, but, I digress. The point is, I didn't have a lot of experience with other guys, but with Tyler, this Chick-fil-A wolf, it just came so naturally. It didn't hurt that we liked a lot of the same things--a lot of the same movies, a lot of the same music, the same food. Regardless, he was so _easy_to talk to. I could talk about dumb shit, or _really fucking deep_shit--shit that fucked me up--and he understood _every bit of it. You know how sometimes you ask someone for advice, but the answer you get isn't what you want, so you have to pretend like they were helpful? I _never_got that feeling from Tyler. When I brought him those big problems--the sort of shit that fucked me up--he would give the most realistic and caring and _satisfactory_solutions. It was magical.

I don't want to make it seem like I talk too much though--I'm quite reserved, and consider myself to be more of a listener. That being said, I could listen to Tyler speak for hours. He had such passion. I think I said this already--we really like movies, and our dates, lots of the time, would consist simply of a movie and dinner. We always did it in that order so that while we waited on our food we had something to talk about. We'd discuss the film, give our interpretations, or gripe about poor acting or what have you, but Jesus, he could segue so effortlessly into a story about his day, or something from his childhood, or, fuck I don't know, anything. His dreams, his aspirations. It was mesmerizing. I always just stared, looking up into his eyes. Sometimes, I thought they were glowing. I couldn't help but smile every time he spoke like that. He really could just rant on and on, but I loved it. And I never lost track.

Tyler was so smart. I don't know why he ever settled for me. I mean, my GPA was high enough in high school and college, where I studied civil engineering, but I never got the world like Tyler did. He understood the way the world worked, I guess. He understood people, and why people did things. I didn't.

The subject of "people" was, and still is, a hard subject for me. It's so difficult for me to talk to people. Even my parents, when I was young. Blah blah blah, nobody gets me, but seriously, I always felt alone growing up. I couldn't socialize properly, I couldn't talk properly. Fuck_I hate talking. Yeah, everyone hates their own voice, and so do I, but I hate the_way I talk. All my weird little mannerisms and screw-ups. English, of all things, was my strongest subject in school, but when I speak to people I just can't get the words out right. In addition_to this, my understanding of the English language only made it more painful when I realized the dumb mistakes I make when talking to people, constantly fumbling my way through responses. Maybe it was a confidence issue. But here comes Tyler to save the day yet again. I could talk to this fucking wolf. _I could talk to somebody. That was such a breakthrough. Something about him just empowered me. He made me more confident and out-going. Realistically, he should've just made me more nervous, but life rarely plays out the way you expect it to. I should've kept that in mind when he left.

He didn't just leave, but it felt like that, when he finally did. One night, when he took me home, the ride was silent. He was more often than not the initiator in conversation, so his silence warned me that something_was troubling him. We waited until we got to my place before we spoke. I don't remember _exactly what he said. It wasn't as cliché as "I think we should see other people," and it was certainly longer and more complex than that, but it served the same purpose. I guess he just wanted something new.

I couldn't bring myself to look at his eyes. It would've killed me to see them. They were always so bright and passionate, if you could somehow attribute passion to eyes. Instead, I looked at his paws. He held one in the other in his lap. They shook a little bit. When I heard him stop, I offered a nod in response. My eyes were so teary, but I wasn't crying. It was like there was a shield over them, the surface tension impossibly strong.

It broke when he left.