Scenes From a Weekend: Friday

Friday night we go out for
a well-poured Guinness and
chimerically-played pool,
and Brent remarks that I am
“the only one without love.”

I’m not. Two others are helping to row
that particular proverbial boat, and they
are far more conspicuous. (Read:
Ally is thirsty AF, Vien is notably absent,
and I am always leaving enough
careful breadcrumbs to give the impression
that I don’t need anyone.)

However, I’m familiar with the jibe.

Knowing as I do what love
does to people, I laugh and sink
a stripe; some asshat has queued up
Rebecca Black on the juke, and
the entire bar gives a collective groan.

It’s Friday—

“When do you wake up?” is the next question,
and again, this is meant to (not unkindly)
ostracize.

“5.”

“Holy shit. And when do you go to bed?”

“10.”

A look aghast.

“So, you never actually get
eight hours of sleep?”

I steal two glasses from the bar
as a “no” at the end of the night
and my body has a fit of pique.

She puts me to bed for 9 hours and
yes, I know a “fuck you” when I sleep one.


 

A/N:

Dale accuses me of being a diarist, but I prefer to think of myself as a historian with a whimsical interest in revisionism. “Diarist” sounds dirty.

Names were changed.

 

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