Some nights my friends are barely visible within their oily clouds of pain, that sickly iridescence littered with bad men, with what was said, and the last seven drinks.
Enter tonight’s jilted lover. We buy him beer and rub his back and step away to piously assure each other that, really, it was his own fault.
“I knew all along it wasn’t real.”
“I didn’t believe it for a second.”
This is how the world works. None of it's real and it all hurts.
I wouldn’t put up with it--except soon it will be my turn to be the heartsick fool--my toy lying broken on a street corner in Shinjuku.
It is impossible to say to whom the pain belongs. Grief scampers from table to table. We all take turns sitting up with it and we feed it from the tiny bottle, many, many times an hour.
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