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.