Matthew asked if I'd like something to drink. I said, "I'll take a coffee and maybe a cancer stick." Then I stared deeply into his kitchen sink. I leaned so hard, I thought I might fall into it.
Matthew asked, "What's bothering, you boy?" I said, "It's nothing, really, but thanks for letting me come by on a Monday. I guess I needed a drive."
"I don't know what's wrong with me," I told him. "These past few days, I can't eat and I can't sleep. I feels like buried problems finally resurfaced in me. Isolation does some funny things, as you see."
Matthew knows what to say and what not to say. "How's the work?," "How's the family?," and "Fuck the UCP." "How about the doorman we met in Sudbury?" He doesn't know he's an inside joke between you and me.
Matthew leans back and pulls a mint from his front pocket. I never tasted something so citric and tragic. Maybe a joke is the summit of the fate God gave us. I'm still inclined to believe that our friends will save us.
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