I called in sick today. And I can't believe that at some point in my life I have actually given him the key to my apartment. Actually, voluntarily, given him the key. I must've been even more stoned than usual.
"Well, what have I supposedly done this time?"
"I got a phone call this evening. So… it turns out this same person phoned you two days ago. The two days that you have been avoiding me. Drunk out of your head. At work."
Where did I put the Scotch? It must be in here somewhere. Oh, and Wilson? He can just fuck off. My eyes are stinging stinging and I must feel very tired. I rub my face with my hands and he takes a deep breath like trying to calm himself and I'm feeling stinging stinging.
"So I try to get you to actually talk to me for once, for just this once and-"
"Get out."
My words are gruff gruffness with no real purpose.
Extended silence.
"So this is how you want to pay tribute to her memory? Go home, disconnect phone, get stoned, get drunk, rinse and repeat?"
"Get out."
"I'm not fucking going anywhere! She's dead, d'you get it, d'you – do you even care? He called me because he couldn't get hold of you, didn't even know if you'd gotten his message, didn't even know if you knew that your own mother had died!"
He seems to have exerted all his resources, heaving slightly, cheeks pink. I can still hear his words and it's like something has broken somehow somewhere at this moment break broke broken like old bones going snap underfoot and I crash my cane on the coffee table, its intestines spilling out filling the floor and I'm shouting shouting shouting-
"Do I fucking care? Have you even considered for a fucking, fucking moment that maybe, maybe I had a reason, maybe it's-"
"What reason? Why didn't you call him back? You're not even going to attend the funeral, are you?"
Okay. Okay. Okay.
Okay. I sit down, resting my head on my cane and possibly feeling nothing at all. I don't even feel angry anymore for his accusations, all the lying now it's just weariness and something empty somewhere, drained used dried up.
"I can't."
And it's that simple. I simply can't. He sits next to me, sighs, rubs his eyes. I look away.
"Okay."
We've been sitting here for quite some time and. I fumble for my pills and my hands are slightly shaking just shaking and I can tell that he notices. I'm gonna give it a while and then I'm gonna get up. I'm gonna give it a while and then I'm gonna get up. I'm gonna give it a while –
He sighs loudly, his breath twisting in this tense clenched silence.
"It's… It's because of your father, isn't it?"
He sighs again. He's being fucking melodramatic about this.
"Don't be so fucking melodramatic about this."
Eyebrows are raised and he brings a hand to his eyes, rubs them slightly. I study the handle of my cane. My hands are still shaking shaking.
"I'm just saying… even if you can't see your father... this is about saying goodbye to your mother. This isn't about him."
My mouth settles in a thin line and I clench my jaw, my hands still shaking. I take a steadying breath. I really need to get out of this place. I need to get out of here. Need need need need.
I need him to get out of here.
"Look – the funeral's on Sunday, 11 AM. This is the address."
He hands me a scribbled note. I don't take it.
He leaves and I'm still staring at the note left on the coffee table.