“Everyone says you two are fucking,” Lindsey tells me, flat as an iron, or her chest. Whichever is less cliché and more offensive.
We’d stayed friends despite myself, or rather, she stayed on talking terms with me no matter how much I didn’t deserve it.
I asked who started spreading, focusing on the stack of files in front of me, but she wouldn’t say. Gossip is for gluttons with a reserved taste: they only feed if they are fed, and I had nothing to barter with. Besides, we’d had a past, shared scotch cobblers and orgasms between shrills and bolognese. It’s much harder than you would expect to find a middle ground when the candle of a relationship burns out on both ends. Easier to abandon ship, call her crazy and him an asshole, keep that kind memory of how much they meant buried somewhere so deep you can pretend to forget about it. Right next to your 6th grade friends phone number, or the thing you said to your father.
“People say a lot of things,” I said, because I didn’t care about Lindsey any more.
But I cared for Lindsey, if that makes any sense.
And if I could omit a line of history so that her rage could remain in hypotheticals, she’d sleep easier while still hating me the same for it.
“Well are you.” She said, not asking.
“Am I what?” I asked, not saying.
“Fucking her.” She demanded.
Right and wrong, the difference between righteous and a travesty. I used to know the difference. I was a good man once, but a long time ago I learned a good man is good for nothing.
“No, right now I’m filing,” I said.
So she smacked me.