The clouds hung in the same thick canopy and the birds were flying in the same direction. The same people could have been sitting in the Denny’s we passed, for all I knew. It was a perfect, grimy picture, like an Edward Hopper painting in soft daylight, and just the same as a year before.
We played skeeball for about an hour, because it’s George’s birthday and Dakota had a good heart and a $10 bill, and got berated by Darren about the same old shit. I’m boring because I don’t drink, he doesn’t have any money yet buys three drinks and several scratch off tickets.
“Is that a dude in a skirt??”
“This must be the gay street.”
“Female football won’t go anywhere unless them bitches stop wearing lingerie every time.”
And I went to sleep feeling like maybe I wouldn’t mind being anywhere else. I made a sniffly phone call in the corner of a loud bar to a sleepy voice, which somehow calms me every time, and I wanted to crawl through the connection and be there, two time zones forward.
And the very next day I sat on a hill, listening to pizzicato and wondering why I never seem to miss anyone.