We dragged him out of his house to meet her, telling him we
had something special we knew he needed, and he being who he was had no idea of
what we meant, even though she did, and wanted to do it because he needed it,
and her boyfriend, our best friend, cheated on her so much, it was all right
for her to do it with this one – if only out of pity.
While I pretended like I was one of the conspirators, and in
fact, had help organize the whole thing, but the whole time felt like our best
friend, and felt justifiably jealous, wish she was taking pity on me the way
she was taking pity on our friend, her mouth around my mouth, instead of around
his, me inside of her the way he would soon be.
Our friend lived his life in one room and didn’t think he
needed anything beyond it, having made a dip in his old coach that he fit
perfectly into, and knew the route to the refrigerator and bathroom so well, he
could make it there and back in the dark even before the TV commercials ended.
We knew better than he did, and I knew better than we how
much he, we, me needed to be with her – at least once, to make something better
happen than just cheer of one TV program coming to an end before the next one
started
And during that whole drive to where she lived, I saw him in
the back seat through the rear view mirror, thinking about how good he would
soon have it, how much he would enjoy it, and how when it was over he would be
a different man, unable to go back to his old life, or to watch another TV show
over some stupid TV dinner, and I kept wonder how much he would take to let me
switch places with him, not telling her or our best friend about it, until she
felt me beside her in the dark, and I imagined just how it would feel, just I
had imagined it a million times, always feeling guilty about me thinking like
that about the girl my best friend loved, and how much more pleasure I got from
thinking it anyway, and how much pain I felt now, when I knew it was real, but
it was the real for someone else not me.
And when we stopped the car and we walked him to the door
and we rang the bell, he still had no clue as to what we were up to and so did
not know how good to feel, just as I knew too well how bad it felt when the
door opened and her hand came out and pulled him in, and we went back to the
car to wait until it was over, me imagining every moment I was missing, and
hating myself for missing it, hating myself for wishing it was me, and hating
him the man for whom we were doing this for being there, when I could not, was
no brave enough to do what I got him to do, and later, during the long drive
back to drop him off back at his apartment and his couch, how horrible the
silence was, how I could not look up at his happy face in the rear view mirror,
and how long I would think about that moment – perhaps always, perhaps thinking
it could have been me.
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