he says. I haven’t spoken with another living, breathing thing for ten days. Nothing helps. Not even Rilke.
I can’t take a tear, that would kill me. Let’s ride out, I try, I’ll buy.
I’ve never been this bad, he says.
I could tell him the 30 fronts I’m fighting and how I wake up a-tremble every dawn, made worse by that feeling I’m letting everyone I care about down. I could tell him lots of things but it won’t make a difference.
Let’s ride out and sink a few. Don’t shame the sunlight.
And he takes the bait.
