Bernard gnawed at the side of his thumb as he peered through broken blinds to the world outside. It was a beautiful day-- one of those days where the sun hung high in the sky and every living thing glinted happily and hopefully.

Scarred hands twitched in anticipation as Bernard flicked his eyes up to the clock. 11:00 in the morning. There was time. About thirty minutes of time, in fact. He paced through his home, stepping over candy wrappers and beer bottles and ancient piles of laundry, until he eventually ended up at his desk, where a sleeping computer lurked. He glanced at his reflection in the monitor, which served as his only mirror, and grimaced. He looked terrible.

Though, that was expected. Even with his nicest clothes on, (a black, long sleeved shirt and slacks) it was difficult to disguise the bags under his eyes, hard won by years of late nights, scuzzy publishers, brutal reader criticism, and a rather unfortunate childhood. There were nicotine stains on his fingers too, and the scent of smoke had so deeply permeated his home and his clothes and his hair that, though he hadn't had a cigarette in at least a month, it still seemed impossible to get rid of. He noticed his long neck, which was dominated by an uncomfortably obvious Adam's apple, while his hair was an untameable mass of red curls that hung down to his shoulders.

He wasn't dirty at the moment, but somehow looked as though he ought to be. It was the kind of look you saw on teenage boys, and, though he was nearly thirty, the look carried on with him through the years. Bernard sighed and put a hand up to cover his face, feeling the familiar puffs and indentations of the scars.

"There I go again," he mumbled quietly. He took a deep breath and recited, "There's nothing I more I can do. Accepted or not, I am what I am..." He paused for a moment, then added as an afterthought, "Both physically and mentally."

Calmed, he pulled a blank sheet of copy paper from the stack in his printer and began to sketch out a vague diagram of his plan.

It was fairly straightforward: walk up, introduce himself, talk, leave. Once more, his hand flew to his mouth and he resumed his thoughtless gnawing. It was simple. But there were so many variables that simply could not be planned ahead for in order to have a true human interaction. True human interactions were spontaneous in nature. The interaction itself may have had been planned to occur, but what happened during said interaction was, more often than not, completely unpremeditated.

He ran through the facts in his head, calming himself. It was best to remain calm during all social interactions, (with the possible exception of sex, but he wouldn't think about that.) With calm came focus, and with focus came success. He became slowly aware of the sour taste of raw skin in his mouth and stopped chewing on his thumb-knuckle.

Bernard rose from his seat and once more peeked through the yellowing, nearly unusable blinds, and saw, as he saw every Sunday through his neighbor's window, a girl slathering on sunscreen in her bedroom. She was young. Though, he guessed her to be only a little younger than himself, he couldn't help but see youth in her.

When things didn't work out, when dreams turned to dust, when realities are realized, some people lived through their children. Loved to see and feel the youth and the hope and naiveté and sheer humanity in them. He lived through her on the rare occasions he wanted to feel human. Feel normal. Feel as though he lived in a universe he didn't have to make up. It was nice. Kind of like having a best friend. Kind of like living with someone. Kind of like timing his mother's daily schedule. The only difference was, if there was a slight miscalculation in his analysis of the other's emotions, he would only have to pay the small price of wounded pride.

Any minute now, she'd be leaving the house to sit on her porch and drink lemonade, just like she did every Sunday at 11:30 to noon, give or take five minutes in either direction. Bernard flexed his hands and watched her intently as she left her bedroom. The plan was simple. Walk up, introduce himself, talk, leave. He swallowed, then moved to a different window to check that she really was going outside.

The girl emerged with a glass of iced lemonade and sat down on the bare, wooden steps of her porch. She took a sip. Showtime.

Bernard once more traversed his trash jungle of a home to the door and reached for the handle; but stopped his hand halfway to the knob. He didn't want her to think he had been watching her. If he emerged at the exact same moment as she, that would be suspicious. Walk up, introduce himself, talk, leave.

He withdrew and decided to wait for another ten minutes before going outside. Scarred hands twisted themselves into knots. Stained fingers tapped complicated rhythms on his knees. Calloused palms ground forcefully into each other until eventually he gave in to his terrible habit and started chewing on the thumb. The thin, pink layer of skin left from years of compulsive nibbling started to pulse a dull red.

Bernard carried on for about 11 minutes, and, once he determined that it was safe, he slowly reached for the doorknob. Once more, he stopped before his hand touched metal. It was tight in his chest, almost to the point of pain. His hand trembled in front of the handle for a few moments as he tried to force himself to open the door. Then, slowly, he pulled away and looked down at his abused hand. He turned it, observing the trembling and the peanut brittle burn marks and the occasional splotches of pale, smooth skin sticking out in stark contrast to the pink scars. He curled his fingers inward, then out again, just to prove to himself that he was in control.

He reached for the doorknob, and this time got as far as touching the handle before he pulled back. He grimaced, and remained absolutely still in front of the door for a long, long time. Then, at last, he slumped, took a few long, dreary steps away from the door, pulled off his best shirt and threw it in a crumpled mound on the ground, and peered through his broken blinds at the world outside-- all the while gnawing absently at the side of his thumb.

She was wearing her usual cargo shorts over a sky blue bathing suit, with lime green, summery flip-flops and big sunglasses. Her dark brown hair was pulled back into a ponytail.

Yellow fingernails dug into his face. He cursed himself, feeling his stomach tighten and his chest hollow. He very nearly gave up even standing to sink to his knees, but the remains of a broken bottle stopped him, so he simply closed his eyes and leaned his head against the window through the blinds. He stayed like that for what seemed a long while. 5 minutes, perhaps.

At last, he opened his eyes and looked blearily through one of the many holes in his blinds at the girl...

And the girl looked back.

Oh shit.