Songbird

Baron Dirigible

I'm of the opinion that everyone needs to have a failed novel under their belt. And so a few months ago I started writing off-the-cuff, much as Butler is doing now, to see how far it got me. Answer? 3 and a half chapters comprising 12,000 words.

Here's the third chapter, which is the only one I was particularly satisfied with. The main problem I found with the novel as a whole is that it progressed very slowly -- very little had actually happened until this point, and my plan didn't involve any spanners being thrown into machinery any time soon. You may find this symptom evident in this chapter, although personally I feel the slow pace works well in this instance.

What I'm interested in, critique-wise, is the characterisation. Are the characters distinct? Does the dialogue work? Does the first person narration work? If you have any issues with the work as a whole -- bearing in mind the aforementioned commentary on pacing -- I'd be interested in hearing that, too. I won't justify this by saying "it was an exercise" or "it's divergent from my usual fare", as this is actually something I'm fairly satisfied with.

(If you can make me unsatisfied with this piece, I'd appreciate it.)

Exposition: David and Elaine are a married couple (warning sign! I am not married! Assumptions about marital behaviour are afoot!). Charles, a friend of David's, recently disappeared and charged David with looking after his valuables (the nonchalance is entirely intentional). Elaine has been kept late at work by "an emergency".

And ... action!

Elaine was, naturally, kept late by the emergency. I ate lunch in solitude: just a quickly-made sandwich to quell my hunger. Certainly nothing that I enjoyed eating with the worry of Elaine's emergency, and the growing doubts that she'd arrive home in time – or be in the mood – to go to Charles' apartment that night lingering in the back of my mind. The afternoon progressed slowly; and with each passing hour, that growing doubt took on a new urgency, overcoming even my worries about what was happening in Elaine's office to keep her so long.

I was restless, but there was little I could do. The lounge needed vacuuming, and the front lawn could do with a mow, but to do either would mean potentially missing a phone-call from Elaine, and so I was limited to that which I could do in silence. The dishes were the first item to be checked off the list; followed by the laundry, some ironing, dusting and wiping of benches; and finally to the bedroom to change the sheets and re-make the bed. With all that done, I took my attention to the bathroom; cleaning the toilet, shower, and hand-basin before replacing the towels and even re-arranging the medicine cabinet kept me busy, but by the time I emerged and checked the clock not a single peep had come from the phone.

Gradually, just as the tide washes away tracks in the sand, the possibility of Elaine being able to arrive home at a decent hour eroded as the afternoon turned to dusk. I was hungry, after having such a light lunch, but didn't have the energy to make myself dinner and so had to be satisfied with a bowl of cereal eaten at a table for one in a silent, overwhelmingly claustrophobic house. The clock's hands moved from six o'clock to seven o'clock without word from Elaine and I eventually gave up the idea of her ever ringing; that afternoon I had glanced at the clock nearly as often as I had found myself suddenly staring at the phone, unsure if I had really heard it ring or if it had just been a trick of a hopeful imagination.

Days like these had happened before, of course, and I knew that no matter where we went or what we did there would be times when the two of us would be separated. But that night, of all nights! The key to Charles' apartment sat atop the letter, both still on the kitchen table, and I knew that the chance of using it that night was rapidly approaching zero. Soon I realised that even if I'd heard Elaine's car pull into the driveway, there wasn't a chance she'd be willing to go out again just for my sake. No, she'd be after a hot drink, and somewhere to sit and relax while I threw together whatever ingredients I could find to make an impromptu dinner. After having lived with Elaine for so long I knew that much.

***

Years ago, when I had still been working in an office on the other side of the city, and Elaine and I spent each breakfast together before going our separate ways until six o'clock when we returned home frazzled and weary, we had had an argument that lasted far longer than any other either of us had ever been in. We had not yet married, and we lived in a smaller house then, so the words both bore more gravity and echoed more loudly between the cramped walls we shared.

Like the plot of a French farce, it was difficult to trace the argument's origins to a single phrase or action. I had been out that night, drinking with my friends from work, but that was nothing new for a Friday night; Elaine usually spent Friday nights reading, anyway, and the few times that she came along with me were enough to convince her that I was not being unfaithful, and that I was indeed just having a few beers with a few friends.

All the same, I had returned home that night to furious eyes and a wicked tongue that gave me first the sudden understanding of “hell hath no fury”; and secondly stunned me into submission for the better part of five minutes as I stood, barely tipsy and entirely cognisant, on the threshold of lounge and kitchen. Her words were ruthless and biting: she claimed that I didn't care about her; that I'd been out enjoying myself all night while she was at home alone; that I ought to spend more time with her after work; that her job was no less stressful than mine, and why should I alone have the chance to celebrate a week's ending?

That's how it began, then, but I couldn't work out why. It was nothing new or unexpected: so why that night, and not once before then? Had she been bottling her emotions up inside her until that night when I walked in to see them spill out with lashes of a tongue and glares from fiery eyes? I did my best to defuse the situation, but it proved futile: she had words she needed to say, so many words, about so many things that eventually the argument catapulted itself over the triviality of a single night at the bar and encompassed seemingly everything we had ever done together before that point. Yes, things were said that probably needed to be said; and I'm certainly glad she said those things before we had married; but all I could think was: why that night? She had been a little quieter at breakfast that morning, but at the time I had thought nothing of it. Maybe she just hadn't slept well the night before. Maybe work had been busier than usual. Maybe she had been stuck in traffic, caught in the rain, help up at gunpoint in a bank queue. Maybe! I knew for certain that it wasn't her period – that wasn't due for another week yet – and I also knew that it wasn't due to my not spending enough time with her; given the circumstances of our both working nine-to-five, I felt that we managed admirably. The argument continued, though, until finally, at two o'clock in the morning – four hours after I had returned back home – it drew itself to a close: not neat and tidy like the eventual understanding of a French farce, but also not lingering like some movie's cliff-hanger conclusion; if anything it was a deus-ex machina, sudden exhaustion closing the valves of anger.

The next morning being Saturday, I slept in and woke at eleven o'clock to find her sitting at the kitchen table. Her hair was unkempt, falling down over her face and giving the distinct impression of a photograph cut up into many pieces and then sloppily re-assembled. She wore a bathrobe and nursed a mug of coffee. When I walked in she looked up at me and then back into her mug.

'I'm sorry about last night,' she almost whispered. 'I really don't know what got into me.'

'That's alright,' I soothed. 'I don't have to go out on Friday nights. You're right; I do have all week to see my friends at work. Next week I'll take you out somewhere nice.'

'No, it's not that,' she sighed, and took a sip of her coffee. I thought she was going to say something more, but instead she just stared blankly out through the kitchen window. What she saw out there, I've no idea; it was Winter, and even at that hour the window was frosted over with chill.

'David,' she began again, some time later, 'do you ever sit and wonder what other couples are doing at this moment?'

'No,' I told her, and I was being perfectly honest. I'd never given it a moment's thought. Presumably they too had slept in and were having a quiet breakfast. Perhaps they were still in bed. Whatever they were doing didn't really concern me, and I told her so.

'Well,' she started, 'I do. They're so different than we are! Don't you ever realise that? They don't work two jobs or own two cars or spend so much time away from each other. We're so young, David. We're too young to be living this life. My parents work two jobs and own two cars. Doesn't that frighten you?'

I gave it a moment's thought. 'I suppose,' I said. 'When you put it like that. But Elaine, this isn't the 60s or 70s anymore. The world's changing. We couldn't afford this house on just one wage, and imagine how difficult life would be with just one car.'

'Perhaps we don't need this house, then,' she argued. 'Perhaps then we wouldn't need that second job, and one of us wouldn't need that second car.'

'Well –' I began, and stopped. I took a moment to collect my thoughts. Outside, I heard someone's lawnmower start up; it was half-past ten on a Saturday morning, and the world was slowly waking. 'If you feel that way,' I continued, 'I suppose we could just get by on one wage. But: is there something else you're not telling me? This is all very sudden. You're not thinking of quitting your job, are you?'

Elaine didn't reply for a few moments. Her hands were wrapped around a coffee mug, but by then I knew the coffee inside must have gone cold. 'I don't know,' she finally murmured. 'I enjoy my work, but – well, I just feel that so much of the week is wasted away. And I don't love this area enough to live here forever, and I only ever use my car to drive to work and back, and … well, you get the idea. It's all so – pointless, my having a job and a car.'

'So we'll move,' I said, in a rare show of decisiveness. 'We'll go to the real estate agent's and we'll look at what options we have. And then we'll go to the caryard and see how much we could trade in a used Mitsubishi Magna for.'

Elaine looked up at me, suddenly, and brushed her hair away from her eyes. 'You'd do that?' she asked. 'You'd really be prepared to go through with it?'

'I don't love this house any more than you do,' I replied, 'and I'm sure if the need arose we could survive on just one wage and one car.'

'It just seems a bit – drastic, don't you think? To up and go just like that?'

'Nonsense,' I told her. 'A decision has to be made somewhere. Maybe this is it. Maybe this is the start of our new life together, a new chapter in the book that is David and Elaine.'

'Maybe it is,' Elaine admitted. 'But then, I didn't expect it to happen now. I doubt I could up and leave my job anytime soon anyway. I was just – trying to explain to you how I felt. Not that I wouldn't be grateful, of course.'

'Don't worry,' I smiled. 'I just want you to know that if you really don't like this life so much, we can change it. There's still time. And if something drastic happens we could still survive. Look at birds: in Winter their nests can be blown away by wind and rain, but then they just make themselves a new one. They're prepared to deal with it. So we'll do the same: we'll pretend our house has been blown away, and we'll look into what we can replace it with.'

A silence descended upon the table. The lawnmower must have moved out of earshot.

'I wish I was a bird,' Elaine sighed, at length. 'They have it so simple.'

'I don't know,' I said. 'You'd have to be able to fly and sing. I'm not sure I could get the hang of it.'

'Oh, I'm sure you'd learn,' Elaine told me. 'And then you could do nothing but flit from tree to tree and sing all day. Doesn't that sound nice?'

'Hmm,' I thought aloud. 'It does, a bit.'

'Anyway,' Elaine began, a full minute later and in a suddenly cheery tone, 'what do you have planned for the day?'

I shrugged. 'Well, I told Charles that I might go around later this afternoon,' I told her. 'But I'm sure he wouldn't mind if I saw him some other time. Is there anything you wanted to do?'

'Hmm,' she thought aloud. 'Charles. You know – you always go around to see him, but he never comes here to see you. Perhaps you could invite him here. It's been a while since I've seen him, too.'

I gave the idea some thought. She was right, of course: I didn't think Charles had ever even seen the outside of my house, let alone the inside. And how long had it been since he'd last seen Elaine? Not since I'd proposed, I realised; and that had been three months ago.

'Sure,' I agreed. 'At least, I'll give him a ring and see what he thinks of it.'

'Alright,' she nodded. 'I suppose I should bake a cake or something if he's coming round. Or even if he isn't. It's been a while since I've baked a cake.'

'Your mother would be appalled,' I joked. 'A Penn girl not baking at every waking moment? Sacrilege!'

Elaine laughed. 'Well,' she said, 'that settles it. I'll bake a cake.'

'And I'll ring Charles.'

We left the breakfast table at eleven o'clock. She went to get dressed, and I walked to the telephone, every moment wondering what I'd miss if our life was blown away by a sudden gust of wind.

Baron Dirigible

After we married five months later, and moved into a larger house further from the city, the situation reversed somewhat. Rather than Elaine being the one to quit her job and sell her car, it ended up being me who left the nine-to-five world to do everything from home. And with that change came a reversal of lifestyles; I, having no friends from work to drink with, stayed at home most nights – or visited Charles when I needed to get out of the house and Elaine was elsewhere – and Elaine was the one to go out of a Thursday night with her friends from the office. And not once did this lifestyle prove problematic. Elaine was hired by a much smaller office upon moving into the new area, and so found new job satisfaction; barely a year and a half later, I started writing articles from home and sold my car, having no need for it.

For all of Elaine's enthusiasm to get to know Charles, his visits to our house – both pre- and post- marriage – were seldom. I saw him more often at his apartment, usually at a time which didn't suit Elaine; but when she did come along, the atmosphere seemed uncomfortable, as if Charles was secretly ashamed of either my having a fiancé (and then, a wife) while he had not dated for years, or perhaps ashamed of his own small apartment barely suitable to entertain one person, let alone two. Wherever the discomfort stemmed from, though, Elaine seemed genuinely intent on forming a friendship with him.

'Tell me,' she'd said one night as we drove back to our house, 'what do you and Charles talk about when I'm not there?'

'Lots of things,' I replied, for want of a better answer.

'Do you talk about me?'

'Sometimes.'

'Hmm,' she said, and then: 'What do you say? About me, I mean?'

The air in the car seemed to stiffen and weigh heavily; I wasn't used to Elaine being so forward. 'Well,' I began, 'usually he just asks how you are and then I'll tell him. We're not like teenagers gossiping about girlfriends or anything. It's all rather formal and polite, really. Why do you ask?'

'Sometimes I feel as if I'm intruding on you two,' Elaine replied, 'or interrupting you whenever I'm there. As if you'd be talking about something different – something almost conspiratorial – in my absence.'

'I'm sorry,' I told her. 'I think Charles just feels – well, I'm not sure there's much for you two to talk about. You're very different people.'

'I suppose so,' she replied. 'But I really want to get to know him – you've known him for how many years now?'

'Nine.'

'Nine years – I almost feel as if I don't really know the whole you unless I know him as well. Do you understand what I'm saying? I feel that as long as Charles is some distant stranger, there's this hole in my understanding of you that I could never fill.'

'Elaine,' I began, and turned into the street our house lay on, 'you know about as much about me as is there is to know. And you know more things – many more things – about me than Charles does. There's no deep secret about me that only he knows. And even if there was, you wouldn't know it no matter how well you knew Charles. So don't worry about it so much. I'm sure he'll open up to you more once we're married.'

'Maybe you're right,' she sighed. 'It's just sad, I think, that you're the only person he opens up to now.'

'Yes, it is sad,' I agreed. 'But that's Charles.'

***

Nine o'clock rolled by and there was still no sign of Elaine. I began to think of what could possibly be keeping her at the office for so long, but came up with a blank. Every time she talked about her work, I'd immediately forget the details of the conversation until only the vaguest suggestions remained; and from those I had little material to craft some imaginary “emergency” from. All I knew was that it wasn't a fire. I could probably also remove a flood, a tornado, an earthquake or a Godzilla attack as possibilities. Barring some other large-scale catastrophe which I'm sure would have been felt in the suburbs, I was left with emergencies bureaucratic or financial. Hardly anything which I had any ability to imagine.

It wasn't until the clock struck nine-thirty that I remembered that my friend had been having birthday drinks that night. I had hardly given it a second thought after talking to him the day before, but suddenly the prospect of a cold beer and company sounded positively inviting. I got as far as considering calling a taxi, but then I realised: if Elaine were to ring or arrive home in my absence, she would then have reason to suspect something beyond a mere shopping trip as the cause of my previous absence; and, needless to say, I think that if she were to arrive home to an empty house after such a day there was a good chance that I would also return home to an empty house. There was also the difficulty of explaining my non-existent sister-in-law's total overnight recovery. In the end I settled for a beer from the refrigerator.

Of course, almost the second that I had twisted the cap off and lifted the beer to my mouth, I heard the unmistakable sound of a car – Elaine's car – pulling into the driveway. I put the beer back in the fridge before going out to the front door and pulling it open. Sure enough, her car lay there in the driveway, its windows opaque in the darkness; and it wasn't until after I had opened the screen door leading outside and walked onto the porch that her car door opened, slowly, and she just as slowly stepped out, reached back in for her handbag, and then walked past me and inside the house without a word.

Inside I found her slumped on the couch, her arms resting on the pillows and her face seeming to have aged a year since breakfast. 'Put the kettle on,' she sighed, waving a hand towards the kitchen. 'I feel like I'm going to faint.'

I did as directed and made her a cup of tea, and then brought it to her in her favourite cup on a wooden tray. She didn't say anything as I gave it to her; she merely took it from me and placed it in her lap, and then slowly ran a finger across the rim of the cup. Not knowing what to do next, I took a seat on one of the chairs and waited for either my cue to say something or my cue to leave.

'Did you go to Charles'?' she asked, her voice barely above a whisper, some time later. She had drunk some of her tea, but otherwise remained motionless.

'No,' I replied.

'Why not?'

'Because I wanted to go with you. I wanted you to be with me.'

'You should have gone,' she told me, and then rested her head on the top of the couch and stared up at the ceiling. I wasn't about to argue with her, and I certainly wasn't going to bring up the emergency – much less talk about how I had spent my own day – and so I remained silent.

I'd never seen her so tired after a day at the office. Usually, whenever she worked late it was either to avoid having to work even later another night, and she never came home looking as haggard as this. The day's emergency must have been so sudden and so overwhelming that she couldn't help but work four hours of overtime under immense pressure, something she'd previously taken great steps to avoid. And, I thought, going out drinking the night before wouldn't have helped at all.

A voice, low and barely intelligible, interrupted my thoughts.

'David,' she whispered, 'do you remember – before we were married – when we had that argument? The one that lasted until two?'

'Yes,' I said.

'I just want you to know,' she told me, 'that I'm still sorry. I didn't mean to say those things.'

'It's all right,' I assured her. 'We've moved on.'

'No, David,' she continued, 'listen. If I don't say this now, I never will.

'That night I'd been listening to the radio. And they cut off in the middle of a song to a newsflash. Someone had escaped from prison,' she whispered. 'He'd been in there for murder and then he was roaming the streets. It was just like a bad dream. He was so close and I was so alone. I tell you, David, I'd never known true fear until that night. I couldn't do anything. I was just huddled in the darkness thinking what I'd do if I heard him come into the house.'

She cleared her throat. I stayed silent.

'Every branch and every twig and every owl-call – David, there is so much to the night that I'd never noticed before then. And shadows move so much on their own. I just about died when I heard you walk up on the porch. I was so close, David, so close to pulling the door open and stabbing you with a knife. But I couldn't. I just couldn't. If you had have been the murderer I'd just have died then and there. When I saw it was you I still felt like dying, David. I was so scared, so scared and cold and hurt and angry and – I'm sorry, David. I'm really sorry.'

'I'm sorry,' I told her. It was all that I could say.

'I'm going to bed,' she murmured a moment later. 'Sorry I wasn't here earlier.'

And then she stood and carried the tray into the kitchen, turning the light off as she went. For a few moments I sat in the sudden darkness, my thoughts jumbled. Was that why she had wanted to move out of that house? Was it really such a bad area? Had the newspaper reported it or did they just gloss over it? I kept asking myself unanswerable questions until I realised that I, too, was exhausted, and went to bed.

P.S. Elaine is not the most creative girl in the world.

P.P.S. Did you spot the Beatles reference?

Brink

I don't know the Beatles very well but I think you are dead wrong about your assessment of the pacing. I flew through this and am now quite perturbed that this is all there is.

I'm glad you made David a writer; I think that's the only way I'd have been able to accept him being sort of meek and submissive while at the same time wise (re: his talk about the birds).

This is kind of strange, though it doesn't break the piece or anything:

'Sometimes I feel as if I'm intruding on you two,' Elaine replied, 'or interrupting you whenever I'm there. As if you'd be talking about something different – something almost conspiratorial – in my absence.'

It seems a little too straightforward for a woman. If drains were male, the water would shoot right down into it. I am convinced that they are female, however, as water tends to slide down and circle, circle, circle, going round and around until finally going down. That is the way women argue. They will not tell you the problem right out, as Elaine seems to be doing here. Each circle is a hint, a subtle suggestion as to what the real problem might be, and each time they have to circle 'round again it's out of frustration that we didn't get the hint the first time.

But I suppose for the purposes of the story her being straightforward is ok, but if you can manage I'd extend this part of their dialogue a bit.

Also, you'd better post or email the rest of this to me or you are so banned. Again, your pacing is excellent and I find myself asking so many questions and making so many inferences that I'm held rapt in attention waiting to see where it goes.

edit:

Birds in Literature wrote:

The problem with making pets of birds is that most species, especially those valued for their singing, cannot be wholly tamed either by training or breeding and consequently must be kept under restraint of some sort.

Aha, you rogue. So the game is afoot.

Orikaeshigitae

Zzz

Baron Dirigible

Well, thanks, Brink; I'm glad you enjoyed it.

I flew through this and am now quite perturbed that this is all there is.

Believe me, after reading and re-reading this chapter a dozen or so times in the past few days, I'm wondering if it's worth continuing on for the sake of it.

Also, nice pun.

I'm glad you made David a writer; I think that's the only way I'd have been able to accept him being sort of meek and submissive while at the same time wise (re: his talk about the birds).

And here I thought people would accuse me of projection!

It seems a little too straightforward for a woman. If drains were male, the water would shoot right down into it. I am convinced that they are female, however, as water tends to slide down and circle, circle, circle, going round and around until finally going down. That is the way women argue. They will not tell you the problem right out, as Elaine seems to be doing here. Each circle is a hint, a subtle suggestion as to what the real problem might be, and each time they have to circle 'round again it's out of frustration that we didn't get the hint the first time.

Ah, yes. Good point -- I'll try to extend this in the narrative. The aside seems a bit too much like me speaking through her, now that you've pointed it out, so this part could do with a re-write.

Also, you'd better post or email the rest of this to me or you are so banned.

Do you really want that? Remembering that this essentially marks the end of what I've got completed, and earlier chapters do introduce more questions for you to be concerned about. You should be happy that, for the moment, all is well in the world of David and Elaine. To a point.

Aha, you rogue. So the game is afoot.

I haven't actually seen that quote before, but the untamed nature and freedom of the songbird is definitely touched upon.

Zzz

You lose whatever points you gained for spotting the C&H reference.

Again, thanks for the crits.

Brink

I'd mostly just really like to see where this arc is going

Baron Dirigible

Brink wrote:

I'd mostly just really like to see where this arc is going

Well, this chapter is fairly self-contained, so I'm not sure what to tell you here. It is, essentially, the chapter which deviates from an otherwise linear plot to establish more characterisation and a sense of history within the characters -- Elaine's disappearance mirroring the night that David was away so many years ago (as well as a more recent "shopping trip"; but let's ignore that). I've intended the next chapter to detail their going to Charles' house, although how I'll handle that, and how I'll go from there to another plot point I've planned, is beyond me.

Dog

after years of lurking, this story was interesting enough to make me register so I could post.

This story has a lot going for it-- it reminds me of a raymond carver story in a lot of ways (who you should definitely check out if you havent already. you can read the story Vitamins here- http://www.granta.com/extracts/574 )

I think your pacing and setting is great and most of the dialogue is very natural.

Some constructive criticism though-

you should re-consider the part where Elaine explains why she was so upset a few years ago, even though it appears to be the climax of the chapter. First of all, i think that the escaped prisoner is a bit melodramatic, if you decide to leave this in there I would find a way to soften it a bit (it sounds a bit cliched). More importantly, though, I don't think such a direct explanation of her feeling at the time is necessary. Your story explores the relationship of two people from the perspective of one-- it would be fine and perhaps more interesting if he never finds out why she felt that way that night. I really like how the morning after the fight she reveals that she is concerned that her life isn't going anywhere, after that I didnt feel like I needed a straightforward explanation of why she was upset the night before.
i also like that when she comes home at the end of the chapter she apologizes for the fight in the past, despite her fatigue. However instead of giving such a direct explanation of why she was upset then, perhaps she has come to a new understanding of her feelings that night-- after all, she seems to be at a different place in her life now. This is, of course, just a suggestion.

I think that this chapter could actually be a complete short story in itself, if you filled out the Charles parts a little bit and found an exciting way to end it (again check out Raymond Carver for inspiration, try the really short story Little things).

two other quick things. Twice you present long lists of possibilities, ending with an exaggerated unrealistic one (Bank robbery and Godzilla attack). You really should only use this technique once.

Also, maybe add a little more personality to the characters. Add some interesting details about them or in their way of speaking that make them unique-- particularly for Elaine. Right now she's hard to imagine because she's a bit indistinct.

I hope something here helps.

Baron Dirigible

Thanks for the compliments and criticism, reedb. They're really appreciated, and I'm glad it inspired you to register.

This story has a lot going for it-- it reminds me of a raymond carver story in a lot of ways (who you should definitely check out if you havent already. you can read the story Vitamins here- http://www.granta.com/extracts/574 )

I was actually introduced to Carver fairly recently; after having written this chapter, however, but I can see where the similarities lie. I'll check out Vitamins later; so far I've read The Hair and The Neighbours, and given that I explore similar themes of dissatisfaction (The Hair) and intrusion into an idealised personal life (The Neighbours), the Carver inspiration may become somewhat prominent in my later work.

First of all, i think that the escaped prisoner is a bit melodramatic, if you decide to leave this in there I would find a way to soften it a bit (it sounds a bit cliched).

I actually hold a rather conflicted view on that scene.

On the one hand, I do feel that it is cliched and melodramatic, and somewhat unrealistic in a suburban, presumably quiet, neighbourhood. On the other hand, I'm trying to take advantage of such references to popular culture and blatantly contrastive or incongruous plot-points to raise questions about the validity of later plot points. That's a rather bad explanation on my behalf, but to sum up, I'm being inspired by postmodern works which use such gaudy and tacky elements in bold contrast to an otherwise realist narrative. In terms of pop-culture assimilation, Murakami is a huge influence. And yet ...

More importantly, though, I don't think such a direct explanation of her feeling at the time is necessary. Your story explores the relationship of two people from the perspective of one-- it would be fine and perhaps more interesting if he never finds out why she felt that way that night. I really like how the morning after the fight she reveals that she is concerned that her life isn't going anywhere, after that I didnt feel like I needed a straightforward explanation of why she was upset the night before.

... if you would have been satisfied without the straight-forward explanation, I may consider removing it entirely as you suggest. At the moment I feel it provides a fitting end to the chapter -- with David contemplating such questions of a story that, surely, everybody recognises to be a work of fiction -- but its absence may work better in terms of the overall plot.

two other quick things. Twice you present long lists of possibilities, ending with an exaggerated unrealistic one (Bank robbery and Godzilla attack). You really should only use this technique once.

Ah, thanks for pointing that out. It certainly isn't something I would have noticed myself. Now, of course, the question remains: which baby do I kill? I'm thinking the bank robbery.

Also, maybe add a little more personality to the characters. Add some interesting details about them or in their way of speaking that make them unique-- particularly for Elaine. Right now she's hard to imagine because she's a bit indistinct.

Distinguishing characters' voices isn't exactly my strongest area, to be honest. As for Elaine: I'll try to work in a more consistent voice, as I do like some of her lines and the implied tone ("Sorry I wasn't here earlier," for example), but her characterisation doesn't lend itself well to more casual conversation. It might be time to start her character from scratch, as I wouldn't be discarding too much.

I hope something here helps.

Quite a lot, thanks.