Always right.

Remember when we used to play that game of who was right?

I'm glad I never won.

I thank you for that.

Tomorrow, when I think of you, it will only be with fondness.

How are you now?

Are you still always right?

It'd be wrong to play the game of what could have been.

Imagine if we loved each other now.

Yeah, I don't see much difference either.

You always thought things would play out how they were supposed to.

I always said we'd be together in the end.

You win.

Asking whether you're happy now, too, would not be right?

Out of Context

“I’m much more exciting in print,” she said, “Much more exotic and interesting.” “And beautiful,” she said as if an implicit afterthought.

I shifted my weight to my elbow and pushed the phone closer to my ear waiting for her to continue. For a while, she didn’t. I didn’t know if she’d be more of less beautiful outside of print. I hadn’t met her.

“I’m just saying,” she continued, “I’m obnoxiously normal. Just don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

“Ok,” I said.

I met her at a bar that night and felt incredibly comfortable. She did too. It was less like a first meeting and more like the first showing of a well rehearsed play. I said something to that effect to her.

“Yeah,” she said, “almost like buying a car – well if you’re a good buyer. You’ve already done the research and are familiar with the car. All that’s left is to sign the title.”

Which wasn’t exactly what I meant; I wasn’t ready to buy the car. But I was pretty sure by act three, she’d be on her back with her knees in the air.

“See. I’m not so fancy in real life. I’m the no frills base model,” she said continuing her car analogy.

But she was lying. She kept asking me, “What?” and “Huh?” and said I spoke too quickly. She spoke with careful consideration. I couldn’t tell if she was trying or if it was just who she was.

When she talked about herself, she told me arbitrary details that only a writer would find significant.

“I lost my virginity to a prostitute,” I said. I wasn’t drunk enough to be that loose lipped. I’d said it intentionally, perhaps only to get a response.

“Interesting,” was all she said. I could tell she’d purposely remained unreactive. She must have thought I said it to scare her off. Maybe I did.

“You know, I’ll end up writing about you,” she said almost defensively.

“So you do this often –”

“More than I’d like,” she mumbled over me.

“—Meet poor defenseless old men and use them as character studies.”

“More than I’d like,” she repeated, “But there’s nothing defenseless about them. Your age is dangerous. Anyway, I end up writing about everyone.”

I knew she was lying.

“And besides, I like you old guys; you know everything. Do you think in fifteen years I’ll know everything too?” she asked with a certain intended bite.

“When I was your age,” I said biting back, “I thought I knew everything. Now, I realize I know very little. Do you want another beer?” She had half a glass left but nodded anyway. I kind of liked that.

When I came back, her glass was empty.

“You know,” she said, “I don’t think we’re so different, knowing or knowing that you don’t know. Are you happy?”

“Mostly,” I said knowing she had more in mind.

“More happy than him?” she pointed to a man we’d been making fun of earlier for stupid drunken comments.

“Probably not because he doesn’t know that he doesn’t know.”

“So our story is tragic from the start. We have no chance for that blissful ignorance.”

This, I thought, is where our age difference shines. When you’re my age, I laughed to myself, you grow out of the tragedy.
“What?” she asked

“What?”

“Why did you laugh?”

“Oh, nothing,” I said.

“That’s it isn’t it?” she said, “You learn to laugh and the tragedy subsides.”

“Fuck.”

“What?”

“You had me going.”

“You didn’t think I was serious about this drunken pretentious conversation did you?”

“No,” I said.

“Sure.” She reached across the table to touch my arm. That’s when I noticed she was actually drunk. “See?” she said, “I’m not so fancy in real life.”

“Do you want to get out of here?”

“Yes.”

I don’t think she took her eyes off me once on the ride to her house. I wasn’t sure she was actually looking at me, or could. She’d plopped down in the seat knowing, expecting. She probably knew that concealing her eyes was pointless. She was drunk. But maybe not as much as she seemed. The three beers she’d downed were as good an excuse as any to shut down her brain.

As I drove, she riffled through my ipod. “Maybe you can find something you like in my old man music.”

She turned on Billie Holiday. “Don’t think this says anything about you. This was way before your time. That and music taste is fairly arbitrary.”

That made me feel slightly insignificant, but I’m past an age where I worry about whether people like me or not. I took her home and fucked her. I feel asleep almost immediately after. In the morning, I took her to pick up her car. On the way, we saw another guy dropping of a girl at her car.

“Sluts,” she said.

I parked beside her car. “So how does this work? Do we still write or are we exclusively phone conversationalist now?” I asked sounding awkwardly meek; it must have been my 7 am hangover and knowing I had to be at work in two hours.

“I don’t think there’s rules,” she said, “Whatever moves you.”

She kissed me before she got out but it seemed forced. Closed mouth, morning breath, sticky day-old beer residue.

“Thank you for drinks,” she said sounding polite by obligation.