They are supposed to be fun, Jack Stanton

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Saturday night close to 9pm and I’m rolling a joint to smoke in my room when he texts and says I’m sorry, how are you?

Since waking up this morning I called in sick to work and lounged around and did nothing. All day dizzy with weed and the flu and dizzy with the Notice of Development Proposal glued to my fence and Thai food and three showers and Joan Didion, not once thinking of what he’s been doing all August.

I look at his text message, willing it to disappear.

I ring him and it rings out to voicemail.

My voice is probably tinged with the stone anyway, words|running|together.

He texts me right away and says sorry I missed your call.

I say it’s okay I’m good, you?

He says that he’s doing fine even though Mercury is in retrograde and it’s a full moon tonight.

I joke that since it’s a full moon he better be home before midnight, locked in his cage, and he doesn’t message anything else for the better part of fifteen minutes. In that time I finish reading Didion and get off the bed to close the window, because neighbours are drinking in their backyard.

Another text from him.

It says we agreed to be open and always tell each other what’s going on so he just wants to let me know that he’s been seeing that guy who came back from Reykjavik.

It’s cool, I text back, I figured you were.

He doesn’t want it to get between us.

It won’t, I say, don’t worry about it.

He says, are you sure.

Yeah, seriously, it’s fine, I reply, deciding whether to delete or include the smiley face I’ve inserted in the message: I’m seriously fine about it, man.

Then Google Reykjavik.

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