It was Paul, flustered.
“I guess I’m just realizing what an i***t I’ve been,” I said, turning to follow him to the bar, craving a cigarette, the woman in the parka downgraded in my mind. “I convinced myself of so many things that required the constant orbit of his presence. It was the reason for so many decisions that I regret, Paul. And so many of them were reactive — meant to piss him off, or do the opposite of what he’d think was the right thing to do.” When we got to the bar, I fixed a gaze on him. “Do you know how pathetic that sounds?” I asked. “Wasting so many f*****g years?”
“It’s okay,” he reached over and put his hand on my shoulder. “My apologies if I’m bringing this up at a bad time.”
I gave the bartender my debit card.
“You’re not,” I said, staring down at my shoes. “You’r
