Capitalization

He ran then, lungs seizing and feet slamming against the pavement so hard that it felt like he would break apart. And it felt good. He wasn't running anyplace, or for any real reason, except that maybe the jolting thud would reach his brain and silent it (finally, finally, silence). If even just for a minute.

It didn't, of course. So eventually he slowed his run to a jog, and pretended like that was his original plan. Around the park, then, and back to his building, and up the elevator to the too-expensive floor, where he got off and went in his apartment, full of projection and deceit, too large for any single man. But he had success, and caché, and money to burn, and so here he was.

And it's not like such a big place didn't have its uses. When he brought a woman over, to give her the tour, it gave so many opportunities to pose in his too-expensive apartment, in his too-expensive suits, and it gave him so many opportunities to get close and to fill her senses with his smell (from a too-pricey bottle, naturally). His bedroom was usually last. Or the living room. Depending on where he wanted to use her, and how quickly he wanted to throw her away.

Sometimes, he let her stay, because he felt guilty for what he had done or because she was better company than his too-expensive furniture. And sometimes she came over again, for another night. Not for too many, though. Company was something he desired very much; closeness was something he feared like death. But sometimes, sometimes she did get close. Close enough to see the glimmer of a man spinning madly into oblivion. Sometimes she found him unconscious on the floor. Sometimes she found the coke.

She'd usually leave, then come back, a blonde, or a redhead this time, and for a while it would be strictly the sofa. Strictly the motions. Strictly the theatrical grabbing and the selfish sweat. And then it would be the bottle, too-expensive, to be sure. Too expensive to be consumed, shot glass after shot glass, at a stool in the kitchen. Always the kitchen, because if he threw up, it would be on the tile. And if he fell from the stool, maybe his head would split open, and maybe all of the things he had tried so long to forget would come spilling out.

Maybe there would be silence.