You’re my thrill

I stumbled out of the fragrant and elegant and loud and obnoxious wedding reception into the pools of bushy darkness that the Saint George school campus had become, calm and quiet and black. Out the ostentatious and exuberant gin-and-cigarettes crowd, away from the yelling over the loud music and awkward attempts at dancing and that goddamn open bar. I pulled out my camera from my suit jacket and pointed it straight at my face and recorded what I’m sure in my drunken stupor I thought was a completely coherent and insightful and endearing dissertation on marriage as an institution and love and loss and how we were all essentially interchangeable, so nothing really matters. I spouted this embittered rant in a night full of music and dancing and friends and alcohol. In a five-minute drunken rant at the end of which I teary-eyed came to the realization that really, I just missed her, and I wished shewas here. And I sat down on one of the benches and recorded another message to her. And I was too stupid drunk to realize the camera battery had long died, and I was just rambling like a jackass. And when I did, I picked up the phone and I called her. And that voice came on like a drug. And we talked for a while. And when we hung up I adjusted myself and went back to the party. It’s a series of little, ten-minute breakdowns like this every time she goes away. And I’m a fool to surrender like this to her regard. But I’m glad to be.

nobody, not even the rain, has such small hands

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