Bent Words

Bent Words

November 29, 2010

"Tires. For the ice. 19". Three sets."

You rattle off the part numbers as though it had not been three years since you last received minimum wage motorcycle shop pay. There are more things you realize you need as you page through catalogs, grabbing them from where you know they are behind the counter. For the most part, although you're mostly speaking to me, you avoid looking at me. Just me. Everyone else you look at directly. I know this because I barely take my eyes off of you. I'm surprised to see your hair cut so short. The beard gone. The goatee trimmed. Even the eyebrows shaped. There's only one reason for you to endure the torture of good grooming.

And it's not me.

It's good to see you but, all the same, I rather wish you'd stop stopping in. Maybe not forever but for awhile.

Because right now I still have your bar of soap in my shower.

I still have your shorts on a shelf in my bedroom.

Your socks in my dresser drawer.

Your shirts hanging in the hallway closet.

And you still have my keys.

Remember when I first tossed them to you? Years ago. A co-worker of ours asked "What's that for?" and I said, "For awhile" and walked away. Seemed so easy. Felt so right.

For awhile.

It's not as though I miss you terribly. After all, you're not who you were and we've been sort of drifting away for awhile now. In stages. Slowly but surely. Still, it's not easy every day. Especially when you're laid off and always calling me for something -- "Can you look up this?" "Do you know the number to my chiro?" "What happened to the West Ave. DMV?" "What's that place in West Bend with the good zah?"

It's not always easy when you act like that. Like how we were when we were calling each other for everything. A ride to the airport, a game of pool, a weather report, directions, parts, updates on local lakes freezing...

For the most part, it's cool. I like to help. I like to be there. I like that you know I'll always answer and do whatever it takes to get you what you need.

But every now and then I miss you and just need a moment to forget about how things were and during this time I wish you'd find someone else to answer all your questions and order your parts and worry over your dilemmas.

Basically I just wish that sometimes I could tell you to FUCK RIGHT THE HELL OFF.

Go somewhere else and do something different.

Not for always.

Just until I toss out that old bar of soap.

Just for awhile.

Written at 8:14 p.m.