I have a ‘friend’.
He lives next door.
We see each other often.
I drive him crazy and he pisses me off.
I never ask his opinions and… he gives them anyways.
I tell him he looks like he should sit down and… he tells me to go to hell.
He suggests the color of our front door is garish and… I tell him I don’t give a fuck.
Then we laugh… between sips of gin & tonic’s, long drags on our cigarettes and lambasting everyone that walks by.
He thinks the world stopped in 1962.
I’m plowing full speed ahead into the future.
He’s a published author.
I’m published in an anthology.
He’s a son-of-a-bitch.
I’m the bitch.
We get along madly.
Here’s a typical conversation:
“So, my dear. You’re looking good.”
“What did you expect?”
“You never know. We’re all getting older.”
“Not really. Just you. You should sit down.”
“I don’t want to sit down. I was a young man once, ya’ know. Age wasn’t supposed to matter.”
“That’s a fool’s game and you’re not a fool so let’s get you comfortable.”
“Will you stay to talk?”
“Of course. Let’s start with what you were thinking when you painted that mural.”
“It was a night fueled by unspoken love and a lot of pot.”
“And it looks like it.”
“It looks better then that get-up you went to the Rex Ball in last month.”
“What do you know about a ‘Ball’? Wait… don’t answer that.”
“Do you still have my spare key?”
“Of course. I sneak in often to catalog the art I’m walking off with. You’ll never know the difference.”
“I do have some fine antiques, of which you would never be able to appreciate being from the woods of Ohio.”
“You’re a fine antique. That’s all I need to know.”
“You’re my kinda woman, my dear, if I only liked women.”
“I love you too ‘ya old fart.”
“You’re a pistol, ya’ know.”
“And you’re a son of a gun. But is wasn’t our rodeo.”
“Next time round.”
Or this time Don…
I’m glad for this time.