Only midly autobiographical. Needs some conflict development. Suggestions, please!
Life has a funny way of slipping into patterns. The things that bring us comfort stay with us, even if we only tolerate them because of our inability to let go, rather than having some special affection for that pattern. Take, for instance, the fact that I am standing in the doorway of this very familiar diner, at almost midnight on the last day in July. I'm not entirely sure I want to be here; this is to say nothing of the possibility that I've tempted fate far too much this time. But I'm here, for good or ill. And so is he. That has to say something, right?
He doesn't notice me for a full five minutes. His eyes are closed, and his hands tap out a complicated rhythm of triplets and eighth notes on the worn Formica. Beneath the table, his left foot keeps the beat without faltering. His right foot finds the metal base of the table and adds bits of syncopation. He has his cymbal, snare and bass drum, such as they are, and with them he entrances the short order cook, waitress, and the few regulars who are scattered about. It was his music that made me love him at the beginning; perhaps it is what keeps me loving him now.
The musical interlude ends, and his tiny audience applauds. This startles him, as his relationship with the outside world is shaky at best. His eyes dart wildly around, and finally land on me. Relief floods his face and for a moment I soften. “Hey” he greets me. I force a smile, and walk over to the booth.
“Hey, yourself.”
He hails the waitress, and places our order. In the year this has been “our” restaurant, it has never changed. So many things about us have, but still we order two coffees (black for him, regular for me) and a slice of chocolate cake with two spoons. The waitress settles it in front of us, and he studies her name tag. Because he does, I do too. Her name tag reads “Darla C.” --her hair is out-of-the-bottle-platinum blond and her legs look good even in orthopedic shoes. He strikes up a conversation with her. I don't bother to do the same, or even listen--it's always the same meaningless chatter he thinks is polite. And I suppose it is. I'm the rude one, who doesn't like talking to wait staff or sales clerks, who takes compliments and small talk with a tight, discouraging smile.
By the time they finish exchanging life stories, he has devoured half the cake. Noticing this, he pushes it towards me.
“Eat it,” he says. “I don't want to look like an asshole boyfriend.”
I fiddle with the cake and glance at my watch. It's now 12:04, and August. I idly comment on this and he smiles one of those smiles I used to find endearing. “Goodbye, Moon, and goodbye, July.”
“I think it's Goodnight, Moon, actually.” He looks up at me, and sends me a cold stare.
“Does it really matter that much?” he asks sharply.
I shrug in response, and in the absence of conversation, my nails find their way to my mouth.
“Knock it off,” he tells me. “That's so gross. It's your worst bad habit.”
No, I think to myself, you are.
Eventually he tires of trying to make me eat the cakes and slaps the bill plus a generous tip for his new friend Darla on the table. WE exit, and he walks me to my car.
I unlock the care and turn to tell him a quick goodnight, and give him the most obligatory of pecks on the lips. Instead, he catches my face between his hands, and kisses me, long and deep. It surprises me-- we don't kiss like that anymore. As he pulls away he runs a hand softly down my cheek. “Sleep well, baby” he tells me... and it is then that I am able to remember that it hasn't always been like this, that there were good times once, not just awkward silences and cold disagreement.
Later that night, I slip from my bed and put on an old LP. As I sit in my chair listening, Seals and Croft sweetly inform me that “...July is dressed up and playing her tune.” I think of a July a year ago, and a July that has just slipped by-- a love that was fresh and sweet, and a love that strains under the weight of a year. But, hey, things changed once, and who says they can't change again? The song softly ends, and I think that things may just be alright.[pre][/pre]
A couple of spelling mistakes, but overall very good. Is there any more? 
i liked it, maybe speed up the action in the beginning, i like fast stories its a wierd thingy about me,
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