I made the mistake of telling you the truth. It slipped out.
"I teeter on the line of miserable and pathetic."
"You look pretty good to me."
"Lots of practice." and even then I smiled as if it was funny to have to hide how I feel. But it’s not. We moved on, changed subjects about a dozen times and only finished half of them. A silence crept in after the jokes were done and we realized this was probably the best company either one of us would get for a long time. Because that’s how it works when you’re a lonely writer. You come across the opportunity to meet anyone though you’re looking for No One. Because No One matters more.
And as that silence passed you took in your 6th beer and I wished for more pills. We are so fucked, and I thought to thank you for helping me forget it a little while. When the words pressed forward everything stopped, and I instead said, goodbye.