There are sixteen wishing wells in her parents’ backyard. Thirteen are almost always broken. Two just give you smartass answers. And then there’s the one that either gives you everything your heart used to desire or a type of cancer that runs through you in about a week.
Why am I going to play those kinds of odds? I’m cool, man. I can stand on the back porch, tell the sun we’re going to have a problem if it rises, drink coffee and imagine I’m a fixed picture of quiet dignity.
I’ve got love for at least a couple more hours. I can get all the dry blood out of my throat on the first try. I can wait quietly for everyone I care about to leave me.
I can find poetic meaning in the heavy tree branches that fall into the tall grass that’s been coming up out of the concrete as of late. There’s a word for people like me, and it’s funny that the woman who coined it could never make up her mind on what she wanted to dedicate her comfortable life to.
Auditions for toothpaste commercials or holding up liquor stores.
Even God knows I know how she feels. I can’t remember her favorite song. I can’t tell you what I promised myself last night I was going to do today. I can’t believe I have any self-control to begin with.
I don’t want to be dragged down the stairs by my ankles by a man in black, who’s funnier than I am, richer in personality and silver dollars than I’ll ever be, and thinks it’s hilarious that I’m probably going to be pining for the glory days of last Tuesday next Wednesday.
Starting the drum roll for the suicide dive into accomplishment all over again is even scarier than losing her in a hotel lobby as big as the world.
I don’t know how I can make that clearer to people.