Fin.Gers.

I have a hemorrhoid. And my girlfriend tells me to see a gynecologist about it. I ask her if gynecologists see men. She says she doesn't know. On my way to the car I glance at a little black girl with braids laying face up on the sidewalk. A boy is standing over her with a stick. They notice I'm watching them and run off. Observations. These are observations. What good are these to the reader?
On my lunch break Vanessa sits across from me eating a sandwich. She has short curly orange hair. I wonder for a moment why they call women with orange hair "redheads", or why redheads have orange hair. It must be my hypothalamus receding. I think she can tell.
"What are you writing?"
She's speaking to you.
"I'm sorry?"
"What are you writing in that book?"
She takes a bite of her sandwich. Her legs are crossed and her skin is the pale eggshell color of the table. From where I'm sitting I can imagine the table reaching up with its dainty white hand to feed Vanessa another bite.
Say something clever.
"Things."
She's smiling at you.
"What kind of things?"
Say something clever.
"Literary things."
Now she probably thinks I'm a writer. Nobody likes writers. They are all pretentious and think they are the greatest writers of the new century. They scribble notes on Awful House napkins and soak their cigarettes in mud. She probably thinks I'm boring. She’s probably right.
"Really? I love to read. Have you read Bosworth?"
Pretend you have.
"Yeah, I have. I really liked his delivery of dialogue."
"Kate."
"I'm sorry?"
"Kate Bosworth. She wrote the Never Again series."
Lie.
"Oh, I think we're talking about two different people."
If you keep lying like this you'll lose the reader's trust. What little merit they have invested in you is definitely lost among these inner monologues. Nobody likes a narrative. Especially not boring narratives such as this one. This is a terrible character. There's no development.
When I look back Vanessa is getting up from the table. She walks to the door and tosses a Ziploc bag in the trash. Her legs are long. And beautiful. I imagine what she would look like naked. Sweating Porcelain. She runs her fingers through my hair and along the right side of my face. She tells me she's in love with me and kisses my left cheek. My stomach is making noises again. I've gone to the bathroom five times this morning. Maybe six. I’m falling apart. What would Vanessa think if my face fell apart. She would probably think I’m boring.