he calls me "kid." wants to read my novel, which, as many times as i've said it and will continue to say it, is really awful. he thinks i'm being self-deprecating. he is drunk, wants a drag of my cigarette. i know that the next day he's going to hate himself. he is exasperated with my cynicism, is charmingly frustrated. to this, my defences collapse and i admit to my cautious optimisms. this isn't enough. he's built himself up to the point of a gale now, railing on about this indecency and the other - it's almost comical, though he is too impassioned for me to laugh at - when i do, he whirls on me, chagrin hueing his tone. he knows what it is. he's having one of those EVERYTHING IS CLEAR nights, though his brain is a stir of heavy-handed drinks & conversation.
he calls me "kid" like i'm younger than he is. i don't mind. i shut up & let him tell me that i 'get' it. in my private, solitary moments, i allow myself to smile.
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