I pull into a dimly lit lot of a shopping center. It's cold and windy. I grumble to myself. I'm not sure why I agreed to come here. Regardless, I march over to my destination- the only lit up spot in the whole place. No sign, but the dull orange glow emanating from the windows is all I need.
The place appears to be an absurd combination of a rustic Italian restaurant and a medieval hobbit hole. The squat ceiling and limited floor space meant that it would be "cozy" on the slowest days. Today is not one of these days. The bulk of the single-room space is occupied by a clump of loosely-connected individuals, making everything feel bloated and cramped. The gnarled wooden tables are pushed up against each other almost haphazardly, with only the spatters of interaction making it clear that this is a unified party.
I know who these people are, for the most part. We're all gathered here at your request. Damned if I know why, of course. I owe you nothing. You've brought me more pain than happiness. That might be why I agreed to come when you called me up, begging me for this favor. For once, it wasn't going to be me on the ugly end of the favor stick. I have no intention of repaying your sort of generosity, but it'd always fun to watch a spectacle.
As I look around, the number of familiar faces continued to increase, leaving me disquieted. James was sitting in a chair, head down and quietly texting. Burt appeared to be hitting on a pair of middle aged women. I had only agreed to come here because it was local- only a twenty minute drive from where I lived in San Francisco. Many of these people would have have to have devoted an entire day of traveling to get here. What exactly was going on?
I don't have much time to think about this. As I'm pulling up a seat, you walk to me and grab my arm. Your hand feels soft. Softer than it ever did before, actually. I shrug it off, literally and metaphorically. I poison my mind enough on my own, no need to enable even more stupid thoughts. Still, we talk. It's mindless blather. The most interesting and salient topic to come up is that you had taken up swimming. I couldn't care in the least.
Your father walks up. Always a big man, at 6'4" or so, time seems to have bloated him into a massive man. Or, perhaps he just regressed into that state. Maybe time was going backwards here. It sure feels like it. He suggests you stop talking to me, that you focus on the rest of the guests you've called together. You get angry at him, begin trying to pull me outside the restaurant. I give a reluctant look and a half-hearted shrug to your dad, and follow you out.
The weather has not improved in the five minutes I spent inside the building, and within seconds the icy wind becomes irritating. I begin formulating excuses to rejoin the main group, but your next statement takes me by surprise.
"Give me a cigarette."
"Uhm, you know I don't smoke. And, as far as I know, neither do you."
"Not what I said. Now hand it over."
I sigh, and pull the pack out of my jacket pocket. There's no way you could have known about it. Nobody knew about it.
As you take a long draw off the cig, I take the opportunity to ask one of the questions burning in my mind.
"I checked the faces of every single person in that room just now, and I didn't see, you know, her. Where is she?”
You thrown the butt on the ground, stamp it out with your foot. A massive cloud of smoke flows from your mouth, surrounding your head and curling around us.
“Shut the fuck up.”
I expected that response. I breathe in the sweet smell of the smoke. Cherry, pine and chocolate. And that indescribable acrid foulness that accompanies tobacco. Sometimes I call it the taste of suffering. I love the combination. You wear the scent well, it matches you. Was that insulting? I don’t know.
You light up again. I launch into a string of questions while I have the chance.
“What’s going on here? Why did you ask me to come? Why did you ask any of these people to come? What do you want from me?”
“Why is it that nobody else can ever get you to talk, but with me you never seem to shut the fuck up? We’re going to go back inside, you’re going to do what you need to do, and then I never want to see you again."
Your response makes me laugh. I forgot that you were actually pretty damn insightful. Resentment does tend to blind a person, I guess.
“I thought that’s what you said last time?”
You march back in without saying a word. I scramble after you. And, I’ll be damned. You were right.
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