chicating

I start Monday. If it doesn’t help, I may have to have surgery….I’m a lousy patient, Al. I’m not sure I can handle if I’m fucked up forever.” He looked at me like he wanted to say something else, but there was a meaningful little silence. “No offense.”

“What if I told you I didn’t feel fucked-up? That I wouldn’t change a thing and everything worked out the way it was supposed to? That I love my life the way it is.” It was at least half a lie, but it felt great to say. I even liked the way it pushed my chest out.

The eyebrow came out again. I could feel my tiny resolve breaking down in the face of it. “Really? I always wondered about that.”

Part of my laugh was because I couldn’t believe in all that pride, and part of it was because he thought of me when I wasn’t around. “No! Sometimes I wish, though.”

“You make it look good. Really.” I didn’t feel like unpacking any more assumptions, or even play fighting again.

“You lie, but thanks. Not saying you’ll need to, but if you do, you’ll get through it."

“Thanks…that means a lot. Although I’m still hoping they can fix my back.”

“Damn…it’s not like I’m recruiting, Brian. We don’t get a bonus for landing a big one. Not like at your mom’s house.”

“I’d deny it if anybody asked, but right now I really wish I hadn’t taught you to do that.”
“What if I told you weren’t the only one?” I let the suggestion I felt in the pause hang there for a moment. It was a tricky balance; I never was sure if he felt the vibe between us as much as I did. “I mean, you tried.” I tried not to think of those first fumbling efforts. “But Twitter perfected it.”