Thu, 19 May 2005

attention defecit
He wanted me to listen to his confession, to his running down the list of his faults, but I was so tired, and it was so late, and he never just wanted a silent witness, he wanted interjections and second guesses and blind stabs as to what his actual underlying problems actually were. Never a friend in the official sense, just another person I had bounced around in the same superdramated tide, I should have never witnessed this opening of the chest more than once in some drunken stupor we later pretend to forget, but I had done this nineteen times, and should have had it woven into the habits of my speech, but I had to fumble for every word and soon lost hold of even the most cursory courtesy, and he stared at me from the other side of the table, as if this was my last chance, my final second hail mary to keep what was left of our friendship together, and suddenly I was angry at being put in this position, of having to hold the rope he hung from all this time, and I decided that if it were finished, it would not end on his terms.

“Jason,” I said, “tonight’s the night I fuck your wife.”

And that’s exactly what I did.
(12:23.05.19.2005) [/scrytch] #