Stranger strange

Someone stu­pid asked if we were friends. There was a chilly silence from the assembled drunken masses, until the moment when you revealed an iron crow­bar kept in the lin­ing of your jacket. Over there, a jaw loosened. Over here, a hand seized.

“Did you come armed for trouble?” I asked, pulling on your sleeve and whis­per­ing into the cocoon of your left ear.

“No, I just hate stu­pid ques­tions. Stu­pid yet obvi­ous ques­tions with no obvi­ous but stu­pid replies. They con­fuse me, more than I am already con­fused by the sum total of life, minus the run­ning score of whatever you want to call this situation.”

“I sug­gest we call this situ­ation over, don’t you?”

The metal weapon clattered into the corners of houses and the depths of gut­ters as it hit the pave­ment. I took your hand in mine and led you to the nearest bus stop. As our feet circled ripples through the gar­ish neon puddles, I told you to get some sleep. It would all be gone in the morn­ing. Everything and noth­ing would be different.

When I got home, I set my alarm clock for 3.37am. I know that you are reg­u­lar as clock­work: bolt upright from the night­mare at twenty-four minutes to four, and on the phone to calm your rapid breaths exactly sixty seconds later. I treas­ure the fact that you are at least reli­able, even in your cra­zi­est moments.