Let’s go out to dinner next time.
I’m busy right now, how about…?
We should totally make that trip together.
I can’t, I work during the week, and I never —
I’m sorry…
maybe you just don’t like me
maybe you never did, maybe
you were pretending, because
because…because…
of boredom, mama raised you to be nice to strangers,
you had
30 minutes
to kill
before they (the ones who really matter) came over
with tickets to Rome, bottle of your favorite rosé
and it’s pottery night with the girls
you never gave me a chance
to think for a minute
about your careless, stupid way
of dropping the ball
behind my back
while you stabbed my child, my heart and soul,
over and over again,
making me the villain of your horror movie,
cautionary tale, the final revelation
guaranteeing your seat to kingdom come
for if you did,
just for a minute,
give me a fucking minute…
I could tell you that I, too,
was only being polite, whiling away stay-at-home
mommy and me time
to do the right thing
I’m only here because I have to be
our sons are friends in the time it takes
for another baseball season to end,
and I’ve always hated your purple clothes
and your fat, pasty face
and sometimes,
I wished I could spit in your beer
kick you when you were down,
like you kicked me,
just to make it even
I’m pretending, still,
to be the better person
hell if I know why
I ever bothered
showing you a part of me
that was already dying off,
friend