#04122015

Fotos publicadas por Key en su cuenta de Instagram, en su viaje a Praga junto al resto de miembros de SHINee.

🔗​​ fuente: foto 1 🔗​​ fuente: foto 2

We're all supposed to be individuals in this life. We're not born alone and we may not die alone, but it's up to us to solely carry the burden of everything in between. It's the prophecy of Newton's third law: the vitality of our peregrination is dependent on our varying movements working to interact with whatever and whomever we deem to be worthy to endure the path with us. The universe might place people on the trail, but it's up to us to act if we want them beside us and we have to make a good decision instantaneously because the intertwinement will inevitably mutate the rest of your life, luring you into surrendering total control and permitting foreign access to the bloodiest of your lacerated wounds that are throbbing to be mended by the careful and tender hand of another. You're under the guise of so many promises, some of which you've told wholeheartedly to ensure precious diligence... 

Diligence that's never guaranteed. 

Whether developed by nurture or influenced by nature, most people are reckless. They've come to possess an appetite for destruction that proves insatiable, intentions be damned. They can promise whatever the hell they want, regardless if they intend on fulfilling it, and the fucked up thing is it becomes genuine the moment you believe it. Even I was fooled by it this morning. Hindsight is always 20/20 and I didn't know any better because I didn't know them, but there's something about their chaotic decade long pattern of promises of change and inevitable subsequent failure that strike as familiar to me as the back of the hand holding the rapidly disintegrating flame my eyes fixate on. It's all I heard for fifteen fucking years. It's amazing how many times the same shit can be recycled into something new. Perhaps if people put as much work into doing something useful instead of bullshitting the people they love, some actual, physical, change could happen. Shit, maybe global warming could be stopped, maybe it already could've stopped. I sure know that, if not for the product of my polluted environment, I wouldn't have taken up this filthy little habit. I don't know what's more unfathomable: the amount of money I could've saved by not being a disgusting smoker who gets side-eyed by every conscious passerby or the number of cigarette butts I've trashed Oakland and San Francisco's streets with in the last three years for them to trample over... just like my dad trampled all of his promises of sobriety and extinguished the bright light of the progress he had; the six years that kept validity in my mom's unshakeable faith that this time was it. The thorn that had been wedged in our lives was removed and the cut it'd sliced within me could start to heal so that it no longer hurt to see the way that they'd absolutely bloom around each other, so that I too could open myself up to the fresh air of their prosperous spring where the threats of crack and Corcoran were history, my dad was here to stay and we were all going be a family again...

But I've always been fooled. 

Because, at the time, it wasn't bullshit. It was pure, unbridled, optimism crafted from a wait that only love could endure, the culmination of understanding why she stayed after so many years of watching her painstakingly build from the wreckage he'd left us in when she could've listened to me and left it so we could've started anew on our own. Despite all material odds that I thought proved me right, their persistence finally broke through my stubborn teenage skull to show that all I've wanted was to be proven wrong...and I was. I've always been, in countless contradictory ways. I was right to think he'd tarnish it, yet I was wrong to count on it. I was right to think she should've separated from him, but I was dead wrong for wishing it...

I was wrong to leave that night and right to come back. 

No matter what our egos are deluded by, we're all sinners and saints simultaneously. Our consciousness of change is the grey wedged between the permanent black and white of immortality and virtue. People aren't starkly either and rarely can they be. We're all victims of circumstance and criminals for continuing it, yet that can only be realized in retrospect. The present is a lawless arena where proven patterns and common sense are off the table to gamble the chance that this time will be different because this time is different. Last night being heaven doesn't void tonight being hell and vice versa. As shitty as Lyd's method of communication came off, texting provided them with a luxury and a curse. They had time to think. Unfortunately, S is now thinking backward, trying to return to the safety of last night where the truth was bright and everything seemed so right and he knows he can't be back there. I've seen this desire to be put out of nostalgic misery taint the vibrance of so many eyes; green, grey, and now S' too. It's one that'll always break my heart to look at because I understand it. 

When I look in a mirror long enough, I catch it swimming in my own blues.

So despite his plea, the only benignant remedy I can give him is, “Yes. Quit second-guessing yourself. You know what you need to do and the sooner you do it, the sooner the pain can at least start to cease. Everything has come to an end eventually, no matter how wonderful or terrible it might’ve been, and it’s clear that this relationship is begging for it’s merciful out. All you have to do is let it happen.” 

The words coming out of my mouth feel almost as good as the cigarette that I manage another drag from. It's been a long time since I've been able to verbally combat the nastiness of nostalgia and rally for a situation that can be changed positively. It's been a long time since I've felt this satisfied. I didn't count on cracking a smile now but it's been a weird fucking day. The things that normally don't line up did, the things that should've lined up didn't and, as frustrating as the pendulum swing has been, I've come to respect the equilibrium. His embrace of my suggestion of drastic change isn't happening as immediately as I'd hoped, but his stillness is okay. The longer my words sit, the more I realize that "letting it happen" isn't as easy as it was to say it, but at least it's being taken into consideration. 

While he continues to ponder, my focus eventually drifts away from the momentary standstill of his dilemma and...back to the buzzings of my own. The worries that I'd blown off earlier rage back to the docket, like checking the time so I can check the MUNI route or the Owl Cars if by the scary chance it's after midnight, and trying to figure out if there's time for me to swing by a 7/11...

And check if Ray texted me back...

But I can't. I can't leave him here without knowing what the fuck he's going to do which, the longer my antsy ass waits, the more I realize is not going to be as concrete as I thought. The definite "You're right J, thank you so much for making me realize something that's been right in front of my face for ten years!" is not what I'm going to hear. Maybe eventually, but not when there's ten fucking years to give up, not when there's a friendship that could still be there. He's spent so long building up this idea of her, surely it can't be knocked down like that...even though that selfish prick part of me wishes he would. I don't want to sit here all fucking night, man. I can't. I have to get home, I have to get to school tomorrow, I have to see if she texted me back...

I have to know if I've lost her. 

The optimistic rational part of my head tries to relieve me; I wasn't that explicit. It's not like she can read minds--- Except for she. fucking. can. Or rather, she'd adept at reading me and all of my stupid fucking mistakes. Again, she's that smart and I'm that dumb... 

So what the hell does she even want to do with me anyway? 

On most of every level, we're total opposites and if she took two seconds to catch our reflection, she'd know how fucking weird we look next to each other. I swear, she's so polished it's almost stereotypical. There's never a stray blonde strand on her black shirts, even though she's always letting her gorgeous hair cascade down her shoulders and back. Seriously, her hair defies the vortex that can be San Francisco's wind and always falls into the right place, but even when she doesn't deem it suit it's gone with a graceful flick of her fingers, whereas I have to obnoxiously throw a hand through mine and then waste a vain amount of time staring at myself trying to fix it until I give up and walk around looking worse than I did before. I'd love to know the science behind the way every article of clothing she wears looks so meticulously thought out. Each piece mixes together so cohesively regardless of differing patterns, colors, or fabrics and they all look tailored to fit her specifically. I'm just talking about casual clothes too, she's also the only student I've seen so far who looks more put together and professional than some of the teachers with her ironed collared blouses and a gold watch delicately adorning her wrist. Meanwhile, I come in looking like a total curmudgeon in whatever shirt is clean, the same jeans I wore yesterday, and any weathered jacket that was in reach. The things we do have in common are school and not eating at school, but even then I'm nowhere near par. Her manners are impeccable. It's her thinking swiftly enough to open the door for me, because, chivalrous tradition be damned, gentlemen are always first. She waits for me to get my food before she touches hers and even coaxes me into having the first taste of her "chips" while I wait, as well as after I've already scarfed down my lunch since she doesn't act like a starving child and takes her time to eat properly. Her most exemplary moment comes during the times where I'm so spent that all I can do is slouch against the booth and zone out while looking out the window and when I finally snap out of it I never see her checking her phone. Whether it be rain or shine her eyes follow mine, watching the cars breezing through Bayshore until she realizes that my lazy gaze has broken. She never tries to snap me out of it, she only gives me a warm smile that somehow tells me that she understands and, no matter how far gone I am, I always find myself returning one to her. It's never forced either, it just falls into place... 

She's given me everything wonderful, yet I can offer her nothing but trouble.

While I'm sure she's roamed here during the daytime, she'd never set foot in this dark and desolate park at this hour. She'd never be caught dead smoking this cigarette, not without spitting out her Doublemint or ridding herself of the stench by spritzing a healthy dose of perfume that's probably so expensive I'd have to sell an eight ball or two to be able to afford it. I'm surprised she hasn't prodded me to quit yet and I almost wish she would. It's such a disgusting and selfish habit to carry around in the world. There's nothing beneficial about walking around and penetrating the fresh air with this stick of toxicity. Who the fuck am I to think I'm worthy? I'm certainly not. So begs the question again...what the fuck does she want with me? What is it in me that saw so fit to acquaint herself with on that February morning and keeps her coming around after two months? She says we're friends, but why doesn't it feel like it? Friendship is supposed to be seamless and, don't get me wrong, I enjoy being around her and I enjoy that she considers us that but...it doesn't make sense. 

Maybe she wants something more... 

Ha. As if. Jesus fuck...where do I get this silly shit? Is the sleep deprivation finally breaking me? It is. The fact that she's already fallen victim to my mind's twisting of our delightful connection into this desire for something more is beyond fucked up as it is but to consider that she could reciprocate is straight-up delusional. S' theory on Shakespeare not writing any of his works made more sense, at least he had a substance to blame for his insanity. A world where Ray has feelings for me doesn't exist. If us being mere friends into our twenties is laughable, a shooting star would definitely steer clear of that wish. 

But it's not that easy. I mean I know it's certain but I can't speak for her either. I evidently don't possess her telepathy and can't confirm every thought running through her head. Who the hell am I to say we won't be friends in our twenties? I wasn't planning on us being friends for two days, much less two months, and two years isn't that unfathomable of a concept. I should be comforted by that, but I'm not. 

Because S didn't plan on being here tonight either. He didn't plan on coming to this park tonight and breaking the news that he did to me because he didn't plan on receiving it, he didn't plan on having to continue the pattern because he never planned for there to be a pattern to begin with... 

 He never planned on her breaking his heart.

I can't blame him. Carrying the load alone gets tiring and lonely, another hand offering to tend to you is like the gates of heaven opening up. Why deny it? We all need someone to love, right? It's so fucking pure and innocuous. Ray's so pure and innocuous, just like how Lyd was when S first met her because they were teenagers and didn't know any fucking better until it was too late. Shit, he even admitted that meeting so young stunted his abilities and I absolutely fucking believe him since he's still harboring over his eighth-grade crush at twenty-four. If by a miracle I can even make it to twenty, there's absolutely nothing about how I am or how my life is right now that I want to be lingering around like that rotten stench. Even though it might be a briefly pretty one like a dandelion, anything to sprout in my dour spring is a weed that needs to be ripped out by the root so that it doesn't spread into that uncontrollable mutation of a littered garden blooming with dangerous thorns. It'd only be a matter of time before I contaminate and sicken her... 

And I'm not going to let it happen. 

With my left hand reaching up to my lips, I take what's left of the Parliament and tuck it into my palm as tightly as I can, crushing and sizzling out the tiny but ferocious flame of those thoughts...those beautiful, terrifying, wistful, delusional, and bittersweet wishes, hopes, and dreams before they can burn me any further. The wince it provokes is only a physical twitch because this doesn't even hurt, it's nothing like what I'm sparing myself from. I could do it again and again and again if I wanted to and I'd be okay because I'm playing with a fire I can burn out whenever I want and, right now, the power's all mine. The small circle searing into my skin activates that familiar rush through the rest of my hand and throws me into my fucking senses. Ray doesn't feel that way about me, but if by some fucked up chance that she does, then it's too bad because the best fucking thing I'll ever be able to do for her is to deny her and spare her from this shit. She doesn't want it, I don't want it, and we're better off without it. We always will be. 

After a second, the initial sting relaxes into more of that nice steady and soothing throb and I allow myself a moment to revel in the sensation. It's so intense that a shiver drives down my spine as I inhale the cold, clean, air of the element I should've never left. Tucking my arm underneath the rail, a crooked smile slithers when my fingers unravel and that useless nub of ash rolls away from me and onto the wet grass below.

The burden of love can't destroy me if I destroy it first. 

The same can't be said for the man in front of me, the vision of whom shakes me into a sudden embarrassing awareness of my surroundings. Fuck, I hope S didn't see me do that... I don't think he did. He's still tip-toeing the around the obvious and, at this point, I have to shake my head. 

C'mon man...you've got it easier than some. Her intentions are clear and she's not dead in the fucking desert. You've been through this before and you know that this is for the best, you know that the future's brighter beyond this, you know I'm right...

Maybe I should reiterate that to him again, but I already feel like a broken record. He gets it, he's just trying to avoid it, and there's nothing I can do to cure that. The only thing I can do at this point is to light another cigarette and hope that eventually he'll do something while the ball's still in his court. A buzzer-beater slam dunk might be out of the question, but a simple point would suffice for now. It's after the flame meets the fresh end of the Parliament stuck in my lip where he breaks his cycle and starts coming closer to the bench, my eye narrowing as I notice what I think are tears and...shit... I know I didn't bring him to tears, it's the situation and it's a tough pill to swallow, but it still tugs on my guilt for not giving him the answer he wanted. He's ashamed of it, he doesn't let me see his face for long as he buries it in his hands, and I don't let my stare linger any longer. The action is enough to spell out that there's nothing else he wants me to do, there's nothing else I can do now but leave him to process this in private. He's been stripped of enough tonight, the least I can do is respect the dignity he has left.

“I’m really gonna be alone for the rest of my life, J....” He admits and, while I know that for him it's merely an exaggeration driven from his sorrow, it resonates with me enough to whisper...

It all begins when they're...even younger than I am? Really? Yes, he's older than me, but not by much. Certainly not enough to warrant this old man-whippersnapper dynamic he keeps putting us in. But, technically, he is right. They're...thirteen and fourteen? Middle school?! Oh Jesus Christ...

Say no more, S. I get exactly the nauseatingly obnoxious tone you're going for. Anything that sprouts in eighth grade is destined to be a fucking weed. I seriously believe that it'd be best if we just abolished that year completely, let puberty set in some so that no one has to witness the horrifying process and then resume in highschool. The slight decrease in bullshit exposure would have a major impact on the state of humanity, I assure you. 

His story starts off more Wonder Years wholesome than initially expected. He sees her, that dangerously random and impalpable switch is flipped in his head where everything else in his world is rendered nebulous and she's now the only thing he can focus on, he does something with it and asks her out, gets luckier than a lotto winner when she agrees, and they date. I have to admit that I'm continuing to struggle thinking of him as anything other than his current form of a lanky college student by day and my coke supplier by night. Trying to visualize his last story that took place this morning was hard enough, but I eventually could conjure it. Beyond our burners and serving our burnouts, there's always the shining side of the coin: the life that makes walking carefully through these shadows worth enduring. It might've taken a while to grasp, the autopilot we run on out here that blinds us to the human qualities of our customers and dealers takes a minute to switch off, but it's not too hard to buy him having it to comfort someone who means something to him. We've all had to be someone's shoulder to cry on at least once in our lives, him selling me discounted grams and eight balls on a Friday night doesn't exclude him from doing that on a Saturday. He's human too.

Him as a teenager though, younger than I am...I fucking can't. I keep having to put his current self in as a visual placeholder, despite knowing damn well that he didn't have facial hair or probably as long of a drawl at fourfuckingteen, but what the hell else can I do? Imagine him freaking out on her with that same cracking barely pubescent voice that I mouthed off with too? I'd rather not. It's an amusing discrepancy but just makes it more glaringly obvious of my weird spot that I've put myself in: too deep to where I'm hooked, still not deep enough to make something out of it. I need to settle down though. He's still setting up the foundation for me and I find my lips spreading into a sardonic grin when he puts out a metaphor he knows I understand. Addiction. But him being addicted to her being akin to how he's addicted to his favorite movie is such a saccharine view of it that my stomach turns like I've eaten too many Pixie Sticks. He doesn't realize how natural his voice picks up that speed, how his eyes can still grow that agape and filled with wonder. Everything he's talking about is so innocuous that it's practically rated G, which should be a welcome change given the complete smut film that was this morning, but I've seen that same foolish look in so many other people that I can't revel in the glory of that summer pinnacle he continues to hold within him now. It's a good thing too. The comedown's already here and, while there's never any subtly to the crash, there's something painful in his frank brevity. He has to rip this moment off like a band-aid because it still hurts to think about a decade or so later and... 

Is this what's going to happen to me?

I know everything feels eternal on a bad night but...is it truly going to be like this forever? Am I still going to want to bash my phone against my head over all of my miscues with Ray when I'm my fucking twenties? 

Quit worrying about it. I won't even know her then. 

Surely I'm never gonna cross her mind twice once she graduates and leaves my sight for better pastures---or even before if she caught my stupid drift and already said bon voyage in my inbox. God knows where the fuck I'll be, but she's too good to let herself linger in my rotting brain. She's like a shooting star, a bright little blip that dazzles into my highschool life as quickly as it leaves the sky with nothing and all I can do is sit here in the dark and watch. That's just how the world works. 

You can't control fate like that. 

I wish I could tell New Year's Eve 2006 S this, maybe it could've spared 2015 S from having to recount a story that chews up my silly moment of existentialism and spits it out...

Initially, it doesn't start off bad but that's becoming a reoccurring theme so I'm able to brace myself for the first bout of secondhand cringe. It's nine years ago, he's drunk and oblivious this time, and she unexpectedly breaks up with him. New Year, New Me makes me groan, but it's manageable. Unlike what happens next... 

"My best friend, he looks at me, and he says - I saw Lydia making out with some guy in the bathroom. Before she broke up with you.” 

Any humor that I could ever have found in this situation has drained out of me like the warmth in my body as I just stare at him, struck as stunned as his friend who had the misfortune of watching it unfold. The maniacal laugh is back again, but it does nothing to shake me from being frozen by the complete and total violation of trust that thank god I've only had to aurally witness. If anything, I at least can understand his reaction now. Hell, I can fucking respect it. It must've taken years to develop the ability to even breathe normally again after hearing about that, much less pace back and forth trying to escape the inescapable. I can't even fucking move, despite my brain screaming at me to tell him that I absolutely don't want to hear anything more chilling because I think I've heard enough of this story that I've regretfully asked for. I get the jest. They had a decade long unstable relationship, everybody's wrong, and the right thing to do is for them to not get back together again. Fuck, I can even offer him a slice of optimism now. It's a good thing that it didn't work out today, S. It's a really good thing. She's as insouciant with your feelings now as she was then and the only way it's ever going to stop is if you stop being oblivious and quit letting her walk all over you. You know it and--- "It was a day after I told her I loved her for the first time. She said it back, but…I guess she didn’t mean it, huh? Anyway..." 

Now I do too. 

He keeps going on, something about 2008 and...I don't know why the hell he feels it necessary to bring up James Dean but it doesn't matter. I can't listen and I don't have to. There's absolutely nothing that he can say or she could do that could shock me more than that. There's nothing anybody could do that's worse. Her physically ripping into his chest and taking his heart only to run over it several times before apathetically tossing it back to him would've been better...at least the pain would have to stop after a while and he wouldn't have to linger with the chronic ache he's been suffering from. It's humane in comparison to her fatal lie...but... "I feel like I’m fucking dying. My head hurts. So that’s the brilliant story of how I went balls deep on my ex-girlfriend right after she got cheated on. You like it? You got any fucking thoughts? Let me know. Let me know, because I’m about to have a conniption if I can’t find any reason in her unceremonious sort of break-up text. Swear to god..." 

If it weren't for that, I'm not sure I'd ever be able to come back to the present...which is weird because I've never physically left it. Every memory of his is new information to me and there's so much of it that it actually makes what was exchanged with her tonight seem like an eternity ago. I have to remember that he's supposed to be the one who committed a heinous act by sleeping with her after her boyfriend cheated on her, I have to remember that she came to him crying over it, I have to remember that she isn't totally heartless and that he was the only person who's ever truly been there for her. I have to remember that this is my drug dealer and some girl I've never even met and...I have to remember to be careful. I'm definitely in too deep now and it'd be just about my luck if my fate got sealed out here without any coke at stake just because I saw past all of the nostalgia and possessed the audacity to call a spade a spade. 

Maybe that's why he called me out here. Maybe I'm the only person who can say it. 

My eyes close as I remove the disintegrating Parliament from my lips, breathing in and trying to bring myself back to all those fucking thoughts that I had...

My brow ridges deep at that and my eyes lock into a squint down at my cigarette. Okay, he doesn't believe me. I don't know why because I'm telling the honest to god truth, but damn...could he sound a little less condescending about it? It's his fucking story, it's his fucking life. Excuse me for not knowing all the fucking details that I never needed to know in the first place. It's not like I'm attempting to write his biography, I'm just trying to make him feel better and maybe score a little bit of peace of mind since you've always got to know who you're dealing with in this business...even if we haven't done anything business-related at all today and none of this reveals much about it, other than reiterating the painful fact that he's prone to impulse decision making and confirming that he does get high on something. Now that I've given it a second thought, it sorta explains the long drawl...

Regardless, I feel like I know too much, too much that I don't know what to do with. I can't root for him and Lyd anymore because it didn't work out the way he wanted to and I can't defend him because he isn't buying it. What else am I supposed to do? Defend her? Fuck no. I'm not going to sit here and tell him everything he wants to hear only to flip on him just like she did just because he's still reeling in the shock from his heartbreak to understand the truth. What she did was beyond fucked up, a complete violation of what trust they had...whatever amount of trust that might have been. 

She still knew what she was doing, S. 

But I can't reiterate that judgment; there's no space for the words to fit. Not when he's reminding me that it was he who kissed her, it was him who got into bed with her right after her breakup, one that was bad enough for her to come to his apartment with tears in her eyes. 

He knew what he was doing too. 

And, for some reason, that angers me. It absolutely fucking shouldn't, I should afford him a certain amount of leniency because he's self-aware and I am...I'm glad we're now all in agreement about how fucked up his part was, how fucked up it was to take advantage of a vulnerable moment like that, it's so nice to be on the same page for once. But, I just...now what the fuck do I do? Spit that in his face? With the way revolt is buzzing through my nerves and bile is rising, I feel somewhat of an urge to. He's fucking RIGHT! Who the fuck DOES make a move on someone like that? What the hell IS WRONG WITH HIM?! WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH ME? She came to his apartment for EMOTIONAL SUPPORT, HE hijacked it for his own desire and now SHE'S the selfish one because she realized that it wasn't a good idea to play with fire right after she's been burned? Truly, how the fuck did he NOT anticipate this comin---no, I know the fucking answer to that. The real question is, how did I not see it coming? Rather, how did I misconstrue it so badly that I wound up blinding myself to the obvious?

"You don’t even know how many times we’ve gone through this. You don’t even know how many times I’ve fallen for her shit. I should’ve figured it out by now…but I never do. I just keep falling, again and again and again. God, it’s embarrassing. You need to understand that, J. I’m not innocent. Not even close..." 

There's my answer. 

Well...okay then. 

That was a reaction I wasn't expecting and somehow it's worse than the one I was. At least if he broke down crying, I could swallow all of my remaining knowledge on business boundaries and like...give him a supportive pat on the back. A quick "there there, that sucks but you'll find someone better". I don't exactly know who that could be and am not looking to brainstorm on it, but it's all I've managed to think of so far. This, however, is a complete scream of anguish. Any of those vague attempts at spreading hope are absolutely not going to work and will probably result in him calling me an asshole, rightfully so. If anything, he's got my full attention now.

 “God, you’re gonna think I’m so stupid…” He starts, going into a stuttering mess of regretted fragments before he returns to assert that initial line again. That assumption. That I'm going to automatically going to think he's stupid. And you know what? He's right. Well...partially, anyway. He's stupid, but not for what he thinks. He's stupid for blindly attempting to corner into this place where he's prematurely guilty, even though I haven't heard the story and I barely know anything about the characters. He's stupid for assuming that he knows my next move, because he clearly doesn't know it. How can he if I don't fucking know it? We aren't that close yet. 

For now, I'm stuck to believe that he thinks that if he prefaces his faults openly, perhaps I'll spare him some mercy and not be so harsh on my judgment, that I'll say he isn't stupid in his part of whatever happened and that their break up wasn't his fault to make him feel better. Don't get me wrong, I'm not opposed to that idea. I certainly don't want to make him feel worse. I don't plan on badgering him either way it goes, so he doesn't have to keep doing this. I'm not the defense attorney, I'm not even a fucking juror. I'm just some person in the gallery. I'm here to listen and maybe put my two cents in then, despite that they're more worthless than actual pennies. That's it. We don't have to do all of this guilty prep shit. He doesn't have to convince me of anything yet. 

Just get to the story... 

And maybe his intuition is more stellar than I gave him credit for because he does without any further ado and... Jesus Christ. Initially, it's not bad. It's not. All he does is roll up a joint without eating any breakfast beforehand, which I'd already assumed happened by the time he met me anyway but I guess I was wrong and...the fact that I can't even register that timeline is almost funny in the darkest way. Sure, S hasn't made himself known to be squeaky clean but...fuck, is genuine happiness such a foreign to me that I have to automatically mistake anyone who beholds it as a drug user? He was just extremely happy because he liked her. God... Too happy, apparently. Fuzzier from the weed, he tells me he decides that it's a good idea to text her and...I have to move my cigarette out of my mouth as my teeth start to clench tight because I'm cringing so fucking hard. I know absolutely fuck all about "morning-after etiquette" to properly cite him on why that is such a cardinal sin but I don't fucking need to. I fucking get it. I get what he means. I get it all too well what saying shit without properly thinking it through does because I'm fucking there. I'm in this hell. I didn't practically propose, but I was a little too much in terms of verbose myself. She easily could interpret that I was talking about her, because I fucking was. When I was typing those words, it was her that was making them move in that direction. Granted, I've got nothing as extremely incriminating...but she's fucking psychic. She's bound to pick up on it because she's that smart and, given that I'm that dumb, who knows...maybe it's not the first time I've said something stupidly vague for her to misconstrue. That time, I probably wasn't talking about her, but that's not going to help me now, isn't it? In the time that I've been sitting here, she's probably finally dug my stupid grave...and I'm not ready to go down in it yet. I'm not ready for any of it. I don't want to fucking admit anything because I'm not sure of any of it at all, other than I like her a lot and I'm so happy and fortunate that she's my friend and how devastated I'd be if something dumb, so mind-numbingly impulsive and dumb, fucked that up. 

I'm not ready to lose her yet. 

And I thought that you couldn't lose something or someone that you didn't have, but S has opened up the door to show me that there is a place in between. One cold, cruel, downright dystopian grey area. Where she put everything out for him, told him everything he wanted to hear, got him hooked line and fucking sinker...only to flip. Fucking leaving him and dismissing it all within a matter of fucking hours, as if it might as well never happened to begin with. It probably would've been better off if it happened that way, but I've got some groundbreaking news for her...it didn't. I wasn't there, but it did happen. It had to! Otherwise, I never would've gotten dragged to breakfast with him and heard him tell this grand fucking story with such a spell of joy bursting through him that it was contagious! I SAW it with my own two fucking eyes and I LET MYSELF GET IT! I got the hazy, impulsive, happy flu and now I'm about to LOSE MY ONLY FUCKING FRIEND IN THIS ENTIRE CITY BECAUSE OF IT! I swear to God, my teeth are going to fucking BREAK from how tight I am biting down, trying to contain myself because I've already done ENOUGH today and I'm not looking to raise my voice at him and wind up dead and... fucking god...it's not his fault anyway. He didn't come into that diner this morning trying to fuck up my friendship. He only came in there because of this girl...this selfish fucking girl...and now he's trying to blame himself for what she did?

"You came," He borderline squeaks and I just...have to take a long, long, blink there for a minute because you have to be kidding me... 

If there is one evident fact that I'm aware of, it's that every time I have told this guy I was going to meet him, I've been there. Granted, most of the time cocaine was the white light at the end of that tunnel, but I'm not doing so bad at showing up without it either. 2/2 totals up to a 100% average. Have a little faith in me. 

“I told you I was an hour ago but okay. Here I am. In the flesh," I state, unintentionally ripping up the piece of grass in between my Parliament fingers when my hand flies up to gesture to myself because I absolutely don't know what else I can do to convince him. Pinch him? I'd rather not. 

 And, to my surprise, it works. There's finally some sign of life in his face as he offers me a faint smile and I can't help but mimic it. It's nice to see him sport a look that isn't of total despair. Unfortunately, that loathsome beast always has a way of regaining its' grip and crumbles him into an ashamed mess. 

Oh come on, don't...

I shouldn't balk, there's a lot of things this man owes me an apology for and I should be lucky that I have continued to possess use of my hearing a month and a half longer than I should've for this one, but I just can't man. I'm sure he believes he's making this better for me somehow by doing it, but it's an empty farce that only annoys me. He's not a liar, it's just not exactly something he needs to apologize for---yet, anyway---and it's only making it worse for himself. Yeah S, you're right. I would rather be home. Insinuating that I'd be relaxing there is a laughable stretch, but...don't remind me. 

That's why I chose to be tonight's chosen one after all. 

After the winter of running around with only ice in my veins, I'm glad I'm starting to thaw back to the peaceful default of time not being of the essence. It's hard to watch the clock like a hawk and let your existential worries take you hostage when you absolutely have no time for it to peculate. Either I'm in school or I'm trying to catch up on my assignments, I'm having lunch with Ray or I'm running into my dad as he's getting ready for one of his Chevron shifts, I'm helping customers or I'm stocking shelves, I'm picking up shit from S or I'm dealing it to Natalia... and I'm so consumed in all of it that it's only in these walks to the train station and on the ride back home itself where there's ever enough silence in my mind to allow the reality of to truly sink in. Honest to God, with the rate time passes through me nowadays, I'm stuck between thinking I still belong back in February, because that was the last month I can truly remember comprehending, or I've already expedited myself all the way forward to 2016. If it weren't for my dad's birthday last week and the fact that the A's are onto a rather impressive start, I wouldn't have noticed that we're already in the smack dab of April. I'm more than okay with it though. Breathing in this warm air is almost better than the Parliament soothing my lungs as I walk, but not quite. Nothing could ever top this reunion. 

Okay, well maybe not nothing... 

I wonder if Ray texted me back.

I haven't checked my phone since my last smoke break, which was about five hours ago, so maybe she has. Not like she has to or anything. Our conversation isn't the most vital, it's just the standard "Hey what are you up to?" sort of thing...except for with Ray, that conversation isn't completely boring because she's actually up to things. Last time I checked, she was at a late lunch with a friend of hers named Michelle at some place downtown that I'd never heard of. Apparently, they claim to have the World's Best BLT. She sent me a picture of her posing next to the sign proclaiming such, her silly grin as bright as ever, the sunglasses apt for the sunlight that's drenching her left shoulder... 

"Looks like heaven." 

It was my initial thought and I had to type it in a quick frenzy since my break was up. I didn't even get the chance to tell her goodbye...not like I need to or have to, she's not strict on formalities and probably just went back to her lunch, but something about it bothers me... 

Especially since I've come back to nothing. 

From her anyway. The only thing displayed on my phone screen is a series of play by plays from my dad about the A's, of which the only one I even bother to read is the second last one. 

1-510-698-9209: "Damn you Nelson cruz!! 8-7 Mariners...we tried there at the end but sometimes things are just too far out of reach :(" 

You can say that again... 

I swipe it out of my way and enter my password so I can text him back and call Nelson Cruz the biogenesis bastard that he is but, when I expand into my inbox, it's the conversation with Ray that I senselessly open.  The corner of my mouth falters even further, setting into a frown as I just review what is lingering in the air. That impulsive sentence. 

Why the hell did I say that? 

If I had the chance to tap into any of my intelligence, I would've seen the plethora of way more interesting and thought-provoking responses to her picture. I could've asked what made them claim that because it is quite bold. I could've asked her if she'd ever had a BLT, because, now that I think of it, I don't think I've ever seen her order one. She's pretty consistent with her fish and chips. I don't blame her choice, I don't even like BLTs that much...if it weren't for my fucking dad pushing the limit of his arteries by clogging them with that potent grease, I wouldn't even eat them. There is nothing about it that would be heaven to me. So why the hell did I have it in me to make such a fucking insinuation? To lift something to a heavenly status? Sure, I just went with the first thing I thought of, but...when you don't have time to think, you're going off of pure instinct; a primitive response... 

I don't know... 

I don't, but there's this feeling, this ache in my gut that's stirring and... I can't. Not again. Letting my mind run wild the way it did this morning was bad enough, but I can at least blame that on S. I think some of the fumes of his lovesick haze may have gassed me like the exhaust of the Bravada and turned me delusional. When someone is beaming the way he was this morning, it's only natural to want some of the rays to bask on you and you just start conjuring up energy out of conjectural reveries. 

But not again... 

I can't have that light cracking onto her. I can't show her even the slightest inkling that there even could be something. 

I can't have her knowing that what really looks heavenly is her in all of her radiance. 

And she won't. 

Not from that stupid message, that's for sure. She merely thinks I'm being overdramatically wistful about BLTs and that's perfectly fine. It's not out of left field in her eyes. She's seen me eat them, she thinks I like them more than I really do, otherwise, she wouldn't have enlightened me with that fact in the first place. She was practically expecting that sort of response. 

Everything is normal.

It's all the same as it was five minutes ago. It's all the same as it was five hours ago when I was texting her and the words were tumbling out as casually as they always do. It's all the same as it always was.

And always will be. 

With that, the screen dims to black because I haven't interacted with it, and I shove the phone in my pocket and pull out my burner. 

Maybe I'll have better luck with this one. 

I can't believe I'm eager to look at it since usually it's the other way around, but...fuck, I have been a little off my typical mark today. This weird twist of fate shouldn't surprise me at all. What I'm hoping to find is a response to my apology from last night's deserted customer. Customers can be a fickle bunch when it comes to forgiveness. Most of the time, I've found that a slight fuck up like this only pisses them off until the millisecond they get their hit from either you or someone else, then their gratification induces them into some sort of amnesia and everything is all in the clear. It's just another park, another Sunday. Of course, you never really know and it only takes one fucking lunatic to fly off the handle and make up for all of the decent, merciful, addled-amnesiacs, but I'm not going to throw myself into the furnace of paranoia over this guy. I don't think it's necessary...especially with the response I got. 

1-415-224-4618 "nah u good, i gotta stay off the shit tn. gonna see my sis." 

Oh shit. Okay... 

While I type back and tell him to hit me up whenever, the comedown of both relief and guilt hitting me at once is a weird feeling. I've gotten rather used to not thinking too much into my customer's personal lives, because either they're way too chatty with it to where I tune out or their guilt suffocates them from saying anything about it at all...and I prefer to keep it that way. I have to. However, I'd be a liar if I didn't say that sometimes this economy of despair doesn't thud an uncomfortable chord in that dark chamber deep within my chest when I'm reminded of the ultimate detriment, the ultimate price of these transactions... 

So much for trying to make myself feel better... 

Thankfully, all I have to do is take a moment to breathe out my pent up smoke and I'm back into the state of false security and the temporary irrelevance of morality. But, it doesn't take more than a swift movement of my thumb to scroll onto another lowercase head trip.

S.

1-415-214-4412 hey…how are u? i’m not doing so well. uh, idk what ur up to rn, or where u are, and i’m sorry in advance, but i REALLY wanna see u if ur around. it’s about lyd. let’s just say i shouldn’t have gotten so excited this morning. sorry again. i hate to be a burden. u don’t have to come, but if u feel like it i’m at that park on howard street. yerba something. i forgot. 

"Shiiiiiiit," is what involuntarily spills from my mouth as I come to a halt in the middle of the sidewalk, just staring at the words like, if I do it for long enough, they'll give me some sort of answer because... 

What the hell am I supposed to do with t h i s? 

I have to do something. I can't just stand in the middle of this street forever, but dread keeps a grip on my legs. 

I don't want to get involved in this. I was perfectly fine being happy for S, because, believe it or not, I do enjoy seeing other people happy...even if they are my weirdo supplier. I wasn't totally comfortable with him or anything, but I think I came as close as I ever want to get during his story. I'm not aching to do it again, but it was a pleasant experience. 

While it lasted. 

Now, the sun has set and there's nothing but pitch black waters before me. They broke up. And...what the hell am I supposed to do about it? Why is he even asking me? According to him circa this morning, I don't know shit about relationships because I've never been in one---or, as he actually took the tactful way of translating it for once, "have yet to experience it". As much as I hate to admit it, he's right! I haven't! I know absolutely fuck all about the intricacies and feelings that go into them and I certainly know zero about the procedure of mending a broken heart. So what the fuck does he need me for? 

Oh no...is it a trap? 

Is he trying to lure me into a fucking park for some sort of vengean-- Stop. Knock it the fuck off. He isn't. He's not pushing that hard...he straight up said I didn't have to come for Christ sake, and I'm glad because I don't. The last thing I want to do is scour the uneven mountains that are the streets of San Francisco after already being on my feet forever and further scour some fucking park in the dark to get on a level I know shit about with the absolute last guy I'd ever want to be on that level with.

But I should.

My curiosity is a bitch. A real fucking bitch. The ball is so out of left field that it's plunked in the Bay and is being carried en route to the Pacific Ocean. Again, there are business reasons, but there's just something else there that's nagging within me. 

Does he TRUST me? 

Sure, this morning could've been a one-off. He might've figured that I was the only one awake enough early at that hour to even respond, but even then...there's got few other people who are in the know about his relationship with Lyd, some who would've been way more receptive to the call of duty, someone who would even be able to relate to any of this...or at least high enough to where they could improvise. And maybe there are. Maybe I'm just one of the hundred that he told and will tell. I don't know the answer to that, but, even so, it's still a good sign. He's lowered his inhibitions enough to let me into his personal circle, whatever the size of it is, and I don't know what I've done to be here outside of buying drugs from him to get in here, but we've come too far for me not to uphold it. Besides, I need to hear something besides for my own fucking shit for once. It'll be good for me. 

1-415-208-0013: Okay. It might be a while since I have to catch the train, but I'm on my way.

Send. 

Barely two seconds later... 

1-415-214-4412: thank god sorry again. hope the train doesn't suck too bad lmao.

1-415-208-0013: It won't. 

Send. 

Close. 

I slip the phone back in my pocket and ignore its subsequent buzz so I can cross the street over its intersecting tracks and not get caught in some freak MUNI accident, tossing my cigarette once I've made it over in one piece. 

As I approach West Portal Station, I stop and pull out my MUNI pass so I won't have to be that guy who pulls out his wallet at the barrier and makes two measly seconds feel like ten fucking minutes. Not like that would be a crushing blow tonight. There are more people around than there was earlier this morning, but they don't rob the tranquility. The barrier's a breeze, there's not much traffic clogging up the way so the train isn't too late, the seats are spacious enough for me to comfortably pull out The Catcher In The Rye, and by the end of the ride, I have to remind myself that I'm not the one getting off at Penn Station. Rather I'm jarred into Powell instead of the typical Embarcadero. It's closer to the park, but that promise is nothing more than a sardonic joke to the unfamiliar. If it weren't for Google showing me where the fuck to go, I'd instantly give back up and go back down nderground concrete mazes are a lot easier to navigate than the above ground ones. Fortunately, it's only a five-minute bustle around the block. Unfortunately, the second the yellow brick road stops at its' open end, all dread begins to sink in. 

I'll never find him. 

This isn't your typical sliver of neighborhood grass, nor should I have expected it to be. It's quite an impressive sprawl of land for such a cramped city. In daylight, I'm sure it's a nice place to be, but, right now, these fucking weird solar streetlamps aren't doing too much. There's not a bench in immediate sight and not a shadow of anyone of his stature sitting in the grass...but I can see that this sidewalk loops around, so perhaps he's at the other side of the park. 

If he isn't, he can get up and find me. 

With a deep sigh, I trudge on through with my hand in my pocket tentatively wrapped around my phone for when I give up and call him. My fingers get a little tighter with each fucking lamp I pass...until I see something up ahead. Several benches in the widened path, of which the closest one to me has a lanky man slumped in it, whose only seeming sign of life is the cigarette he keeps puffing on, only further highlighting the grimly crestfallen look weighing on his face. 

Holy shit. 

That isn't going to happen. 

It isn't and I have not a singular clue why I'm being tortured like it's a possibility. Ray doesn't even know what particular street I live on, and, even if she did, she doesn't know the apartment number. She doesn't even want my apartment number because has no reason to. She's not going to show up randomly at midnight or whatever and wonder why it's so empty. 

She doesn't care to. So stop worrying about it. 

The clarity making it a lot easier to breathe and making me want to laugh and shake my head at the thought even being entertained. The entire damn thing is wrong because it's supposed to be wrong. This isn't my story, it's his. Obviously, because Ray also doesn't cry...I mean, I'm sure she has in some point in her life like everyone else does, but even that basic fact of humanity doesn't seem real. She's so cheerful, I can't picture her face without a sunny smile. 

I hope I never have to see her without it. 

But this girl, whoever S is talking about, is a complete wreck. He says that she looks like a wet rat and--- Lyd, the name of our leading lady in this story is finally revealed and, again, more weight is off of my shoulders. Now it's Lyd who is trying to "spark up"...which makes me sigh. 

God, she's a crackhead too? 

I should've known. I don't know why I was imagining this taking place at a nice, comfortable, apartment on just a chill Saturday night...nope. It's a crackhouse. I guess if you're spending hours looking for the loose rocks on the floor that actually went up in smoke, you're bound to bond... 

He continues on, telling me about how Lyd got cheated on by some guy from Berkeley and I try to stifle my laugh. 

Pffffttttt.... 

It's not funny that she got cheated on by any means, but by a guy from Berkeley? No wonder why he turned around and cheated on her. He can't even get his own priorities straight. It doesn't take an expensive political science degree to know that place is filled with yuppies who aren't even from here and probably wouldn't wanna be from here if they didn't have their parents paying for their dorm seclusion yet they act like the most disenfranchised group of people to the nth degree...at least, that's the impression I've gotten from hearing about them on the news. Never really wandered past the border to find out for myself...no need to, I'm not in college and...don't know yet if I will be. 

Guess we'll find out in a year when I can afford to think about it. 

 As if I didn't already feel sorry for her, S continues by going on about how small and defeated she felt which...Christ, that's a good word to illustrate it, and how he comforted her through this. It's enough to warm my cold heart...well, that's just the coffee going down, but I do appreciate hearing it. It's weird for me to hear and I can't visualize it entirely; the man in front of me, the man who talks about the most nonsense shit with his drawl turned up to the most obnoxious volume and seems to have no regard of anything or anyone around him at all, as the man whispering words of comfort while sitting there with his arm around her shoulder gently. My mind just can't process the image, yet, as weird as it is, I wholeheartedly believe him when he says he did. You just can't lie about the things that he's saying and why would he? What does he have to gain from telling this to me? Nothing...at least---no, there's no ulterior motive here. He looks too at peace to throw me something to catch. 

"Then, I guess…I don’t know, something just snapped within me, I basically just declared my love for her like I’m Prince fucking Charming up in this bitch and then I proceeded to lose all of my common sense and I kissed her. I fucking kissed her, J, and she kissed me back, and I swear to god…it was something straight out of the movies..." He tells me, a smile warming the corner of my lips.

  Aww, that's sweet... 

--- "Something you can only understand if you’ve experienced it yourself. You’ll just have to see for yourself what it’s like. Whenever you find that special someone. I’m sure it’ll happen soon enough, so don’t lose your shit." 

Oh. How....how the hell does he know I haven't? Am I that fucking obvious? 

Certainly, I'm not helping matters by covering up my face with this coffee cup so he won't see the way my smile just completely faltered shamefully. I don't even know why I'm practically burning the tip of my nose with the steam, he isn't fucking paying attention...I don't even know why this bothers me. He's not lying, I haven't yet...and I'm not going to lose my shit about it, but God...what the hell does he know? Seriously, he said it so matter-of-factly but he doesn't even know me. I've never said anything about anything of the matter to him and he's out here preaching it like it's the fucking word of God. 

That's probably why he thinks that... 

It's...a fair assumption, but it doesn't mean shit. Just because I don't drag him all the way from wherever the hell he lives out to some diner in this city to purposely to inform him of my private life doesn't mean it's evidence to use against me. It's ambiguous, just like I intend and constantly strive for it to be. All he actually knows about me is what I tell him and I've told him nothing. 

The steam is starting to get to me, so I roughly swallow the long sip of coffee and remove the cup from my face just in time to hear him laughing and trying to boast, “Well, there’s no subtle way to put it. We fucked. Sorry if that disturbs your innocent adolescent mind, but we fucked. And it was great." 

My brow is still ridged a little narrow at how condescending he unintentionally sounds, but I'm not offended by it. Mainly I'm just blinking at him blankly. So? That's it? That's what we've been leading to? I mean, if him getting laid makes him this at ease, I'm certainly not going to complain about the ending, but...is that all it ever culminates to? Just sex? Just some physical act of lust? 

I don't get it... 

Maybe there's something to his unvarnished statement about me being an "innocent adolescent" that's more reverent towards me than I originally thought. Maybe I'm not supposed to get it yet. Really get it too. Surely, sex is gonna seem cheap when it's everywhere at any time and you've never had the personal experience...but I'm not relieved by this. It still feels like a farce I'm telling myself.

It still isn't right. 

Neither is this silence, that I only realize we've been in for more than two seconds as I look up from the table and see him leaning his head against the back of the booth, finally taking a breath before he lifts it and has a new look on his face. His eyes are a little more piercing, all on me as when he asks, "So, how was your Saturday?", expecting my standard Saturday night affair of working and hibernating to be just as riveting as his rekindled romance. "Pretty alright, I guess," I reply.

I really can't complain, calamity is as good as celebratory for me. Nothing happened, everything and everyone was normal. Can't be disappointed when there's absolutely nothing to be disappointed about.