dinner with a record player

"Well what would you like?" you ask me.

"Tuna Sandwich. Single."

You order. You pay. 

Then, you make me sit and listen. 

"How have you been -" you start and then you continue without missing a beat.

"You know the last time I came here, it was with an awful ex-lover. She was this, she was that, she was everything and nothing."

I make a joke. You laugh. 

You acknowledge that it is my first time exploring the city.

"Why have you been cooped up?" You don't ask. 

You do not sit and wonder. 

Instead the whole cafe is made to question why I am silent and receiving.

In between your tangents you add shallow compliments about how I am good at listening.

Lovely.

I think to myself. I have wasted yet another night. Further exhausted by a person who lacks emotional insight.

But I try to understand. We often have to be self-centred as we try to heal. So I go on a walk with you, that I enjoy some aspect of this whole ordeal.

Then, the pockets of silence filled with:

"I envy your maturity."

The winter air and dense fog hide my disdain for thee.

My boots click on the asphalt, beating drum beats to your speech. I only wish you would ask at least how I have been. 

Then I rush you to take me home. You buy me cheap sweet cigarettes that make me sick. I make a silent promise never to agree to another meeting like this.

I have compassion for you and your pain. I am proud of how far you have come. 

And when this heartbreak passes, I hope you learn how to love beyond yourself and the world you have shun. 

I envy you, your oblivion, the havoc you are wreaking.

I envy the company you keep, how they stay despite.

Your thoughtlessness in the making.