The Suck

After my – would it be called a tryst? – with Ashleigh, I gathered my coat and said not a word to any of the old men I’d come to call my friends.  They had been there for me through my breakup, whether by choice or proximity, and I betrayed every hard-nosed truth they taught me.  I…

Wait.  A tryst is a pre-arranged meeting.  It wasn’t a tryst, because it wasn’t planned.  It was an affair.

So anyway, I felt deplorable, because here I thought I was over Ashleigh

Wait another second.  An affair sounds like it’s a continuing, well, affair.  I don’t know what any of anything means now or then.  What’s the word I’m thinking of?

A fling.  We had a fling.  While I was gathering my coat and these thoughts, I hadn’t heard Hank yelling from the squeaking, rocking ceiling fan.  Figuratively, of course.  If you even tried dusting that fan, I’m sure it’d fall.

Hey Aiden, Hank called to me when I finally heard him.  He might have spit a hundred-and-one versions of the word pussy out of his mouth, or he might have shouted my name once.  My thoughts were in a void, like in one of those chemical goop balloons you stick a straw in to blow them up.

“Yeah, Hank,” I responded. 

I never heard Hank quite so eloquent:

Sit your ass down and forget about her.  I know it feels like your world’s collapsing, but you can’t rebuild it while it’s falling apart.  You just got to let it fall to pieces before you get back to putting up that roof.

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