Every time Jamie tells his story he gets a little more innocent, as though guilt were washable in rhetoric. I listen at the corners of the conversation, tired of his inflation, and search myself for some barb to bring him down. All I have is my own indignation and a weary knack for self-depreciation. Jamie orders another round and goes back to polishing his lies. I tell him I’m going to kill myself and he says, oh yeah, in a milk with two tone that makes me want to switch my target. Sometimes I wonder why I’m here.

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