Posted: July 3, 2016 in writing
Tags: , , ,

Some months ago, I slammed my thumb in your car door after a long night of drunken kareoke. It blood-blistered right at the base of the nail; a merlot that deepened to a malbec even though we’d mostly drunk beer that night–in pitchers. I think it was PBR. 

We’d had the worst conversations that night; the “I didn’t mean what I’ve been saying” conversations, the “I can’t think of you that way” ones. We all but licked the envelopes for our resignation letters that night. It was over. 

I couldn’t sleep next to you, on that air mattress. I threw on my sweatshirt, put the hood up and stretched out face-up on your bare living room floor, contemplating for the remaining hours whether it was really over. 

For seven years we’d been each other’s only constant: keeping each other’s deepest secrets, standing by one another with unwavering loyalty, always reminding anyone adverse that “even good people sometimes do horrible things”.

But, oh, the horrible thing you did to me, I finally found unforgivable. 

The red grew out of my thumbnail and the jagged edge where it had split apart on impact is growing smoother by the day. Soon, it will look completely normal. Soon, I will be without the constant reminder of the night our friendship became an alka-seltzer tablet in a cup that was both half full and half empty. 


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