“Why do you think we couldn’t see it coming?”
“That’s the way life is. You don’t see things coming.”
The brain is this three-pound organ that’s the seat of everything we are—our hopes and desires and our loves. All it takes is this tiny tweak in these three pounds, this tiny change in perception, and what you see as real isn’t real to anyone else.
“What are you doing tonight?” I ask him.
“Going to see Marianne.”
I nod. “Did you tell her?”
“No.”
“Don’t. It’s not worth it. Does she know I’m here?”
No, he says again.
When we finish our drinks, I look at him and I say, so this is goodbye. And he says, unless you want to come show up on my doorstep again. Then he laughs and his face shifts, slightly, a small change behind his eyes and I realize he’s crying. And then, so am I.
“Where are you going?” he asks me, and I answer. He says nothing back and I realized he wasn’t talking to me. He was talking to God now.
He holds me tight as we say goodbye.
“Someone should have told us what was coming.”
Later, in a dream, Jesus called to plead his case. He was surprisingly whiney. Eventually, I had to hang up.
"Quit bitching," I told him. "I'm busy."
I'm sorry, but what did he expect? This isn't a fucking hotline.
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