He was sitting on a bench, alone at night, broken street light above. Stars ahead, but only when he turned his head up. The breeze was warm and temporary, the shadows interspersed with brief lights, it was his life in metaphor. He couldn't ever shake the feeling of isolation that went from his stomach to his head, like food poisoning, money poorly spent at some restaurant everyone warned him about. Society rarely saw him or acknowledged his existence, and when society saw him, he was demonized by the society.
The person was not directly demonized, the name was given brief offers of hollow support from those closest to him. And the hollowness came from him, no doubt, like an angry, fraudulent translator trying to decipher the language of affection and only falling deeper into some personal pit of powerful hatred and despair. No, what was demonized was the physical roughness which ran through his DNA, and cast him as something to run away from like the night and its crickets. And for the umpteenth he waited next to a phone, more portable than the ones in the past, but growing heavier in his hand.
An hour had passed and she hadn't called him, or replied back. Halfway between his empty apartment and an array of businesses, he thought about the men who would tell him that she never would, and that she was just as likely having sex with some other guy right now. It made him feel subhuman. And then this dark connection happened in his mind, and he saw all the women who had blown him off in the past, who had considered him an option, or a therapist, or an entertainer at most, and then found some other man or temporary fling. It was the evidence that he was subhuman.
He wanted to walk far off, through the trees and fields, leave his home and job behind, leave society and disappear forever in the night. His loneliness wasn't social, and his privilege wasn't real, and society wanted to fill him with so much confusion the he would either conform to that confusion or become the monster they knew men to secretly be. While some men told him otherwise, to use ideas or passions to run or hide from his biology, but no amount of such reasoning was enough to hold off the void. So he carried out his business in this country of confusion, and carried himself as though he felt complete, and compelled himself to this lie-- as most men do.
The young man sat there and began to think how many men were like him. Sitting at empty tables, brooding in empty rooms, waiting for some intelligent peasant girl among endless stupid princesses. Thinking romantic love went beyond opportunism, taking female acceptance with her opportunism at their back, and confusing their notion of love with some spiritual or grandiose drive inherent in themselves.
His phone started ringing, and he let it ring, and he headed home.