Today's a Thursday. You can tell by the tie - paisley, like usual. You'd think you'd realize that before you had to check the tie to tell. Nobody can ever leave the ties alone. It can't be helped that it's the only thing people ever really give for birthdays and Christmases in the past (whoever would think to give that as a Christmas present... well, there'd have to something wrong with them). You never leave the ties alone. Always teasing, always picking away at them. You'd probably feel different if you ever wore the damn things.
Wednesday's the worst. But then... that's the horrendous, gaudy one with the starburst painted onto it, that SHE got a few years ago. Why it's still worn, you have no idea. It's the same one that had the equation for how horrible it was, the one that you, his so-called-best-friend, couldn't stop snickering about for weeks after you two had seen A Beautiful Mind. It SHOULD be rid of. It can't be, though. She GAVE it. As a PRESENT. It can't be let go.
You were talking about secrets.
How did you get onto the subject of ties?
You can never concentrate anymore.
"I have no secrets," you declare on that particular afternoon in the grubby hospital cafeteria. You're chowing down on a Reuben sandwich, like always - the one that you tricked him into buying, again. He can't seem to say 'no', not to petty theft like this. But then, $5.87 isn't worth ruining a friendship over.
The friend can only smirk at the remark, picking at his own salad (and you wonder, vaguely, who the hell buys and/or eats salads anymore - certainly not him) and shaking his head. No secrets indeed. "You have plenty of secrets," he scoffs, stabbing into a particularly soggy piece of lettuce. "You just keep them... well, secret. It's your God-given right, now, isn't it?"
You make a face. You're not happy with that answer. Who would be? "I have no secrets from YOU?" you correct yourself, hopefully, mouth stuffed to the brim with corned beef and sauerkraut. Another smirk escapes your lips. You can't help yourself.
"Oh, yes. You're a saint. We should... should all chip in to build statues to your godliness." He shakes his head, again, as if he pities you. "How about that, then?" he automatically asks, cleverly dodging the issue at hand. He's good at that - inhumanly good. It even catches you off-guard, for the most of the time. "What kind of skeletons are in your closet?"
You only smirk, and glance away.
You don't answer him.
You don't plan to anytime soon.
HWHWHWHWHWHWHWHWHWHWHWHWHWHWHWHWHWHW
The second time he brings it up, you're in the office. He's playing with the tennis ball, tossing it back and forth between his hands, thinking... just thinking. You don't interrupt him - you know it could be dangerous, disrupting that deep of a brainstorm. You only prop your feet up on the desk, remaining in a sort of respectful silence, hands folded across your lap, as if you're a schoolboy all over again.
"Maybe you don't have skeletons," he finally muses. Now you're intrigued. You can't help yourself. You cock an eyebrow, waiting for him to make his point and explain himself.
"Oh?"
"No. You don't have skeletons... because you've already rid of them. You don't think about them. You've tossed them all out, buried them in the garden in your backyard." He stops passing the ball between his soft hands - the gentle, soothing, rhythmic 'thwap' of felt and rubber connecting with skin ceases. "You just don't want to deal with them."
You don't have the heart to tell him that he's SO incredibly wrong.
HWHWHWHWHWHWHWHWHWHWHWHWHWHWHWHWHWHW
You thought he was done with his psychological, new-age crap. You thought you were home free, as you both sat on the couch, a few empty beer bottles scattered across the coffee table. The L Word was playing on screen, lesbian erotica abroad, but only on mute... always on mute. Unmuted... well, that's just ungodly.
"I changed my mind."
You blink once... twice. "You want to watch The OC instead? It's a little too l-"
"About the skeletons thing."
You roll your eyes. "You're STILL going on about that?"
"What can I say? I'm curious."
Your arms are folded across your Rush t-shirt. Box him out. He doesn't need to see what's in there.
"What say you now, oh great and wise one?"
It's his turn to roll his eyes. But he's going to speak anyways. "You don't have skeletons. You didn't toss them out, though. You've still got them in there."
He looks so damn proud. Oh, lordy, he's found the meaning of life.
"They're not skeletons... because you never let them see the light of day. You keep them locked in there, out of sight of everyone and everything, even yourself. You don't have skeletons in your closet... because they're still corpses in there. They're still decomposing, rotting and giving off some kind of bad smell."
Proud has drifted into smug, and you kind of feel like slapping that look off of his face, kick him onto the sidewalk.
You can't do that, he's your best friend.
"That's it. I have moldy bodies in my closet. Wanna go check? I think it's almost dinnertime." He chuckles slightly at that. You have to combat with jokes. It's your defensive mechanism.
"You can fend them off all you want. They're always going to stay in there, stinking up your house."
You glance sideways at him at that, scanning him up and down. He doesn't have any idea what he's talking about... he's probably been borrowing some reading from the innocent immunologist's collection of utter shit. "Why are y-"
"The funny uncle thing. Word passed on. I got curious."
"Curiosity killed the cat, you know."
He shakes his head.
"We're in luck. I'm only human."
You roll your eyes right back at him, challenging his shaken head to a duel. There are a few moments of silence. It's not awkward. It's heavy, sure, but it's comfortable, and you can deal with it. A sigh escapes your throat, and, what the hell, you amuse the poor bastard.
"Aren't we all."