I sit at a familiar table outside, smoking again. I've done that more in these comments than I have all summer.
The two of them sit down across from me. I can't tell if they came together or separately, but I haven't seen them together without Fred around in far too long. There is an uncomfortable closeness to the way they sit, as if they are unsure whether they want to be holding each other or on opposite sides of the planet so they settle for just a bit nearer than is usual for friends.
It's fall, cold enough to justify the white hot chocolate I'm drinking. There is a needlessly long silence. I grow bored of it, and go with an old standby:
"Providence is a terrible city."
He says "Yes" at the exact moment she says "No." They gaze at each other. I take the moment to contemplate how neurotic I must be to make myself the third wheel in my own fictionalized interactions.
"Too many things fall apart here. Too much evil never gets repaired, and too much good gets privated for stupid reasons. Only four years here could make HP Lovecraft reasonable."
Someone walks by and calls out to her. She ignores him, thinking about how much of that was about her. "Why do you say that?"
"Do you realize how dumb it is that Claire got the fairy tale and you didn't?"
"Be fair," he says, "neither did you."
"Not the point, I didn't find someone who completely satisfied my every hope and desire like you two. I'm firmly convinced at a less cursed place you would have worked it out."
He's silent. It'll be a while before he'll talk again. "Doesn't it mean more to you than wasted potential and missed opportunities?" she asks.
"No. Vanity of vanities says Qoheleth."
"A lot of things really weren't supposed to work out. If everyone just got what they wanted Heaven would be empty."
"Thomas says happiness is key component of the moral life. If this place kills happiness, it kills souls, just as surely as instant gratification would." Neither ask what this means for me. They know the answer. This is the same conversation we've had for years.
"I miss Sallust," she says. "I miss Cicero," he replies.
I snub out my cigarette and don't respond. It's too hard to pick just one that I miss.
The two of them sit down across from me. I can't tell if they came together or separately, but I haven't seen them together without Fred around in far too long. There is an uncomfortable closeness to the way they sit, as if they are unsure whether they want to be holding each other or on opposite sides of the planet so they settle for just a bit nearer than is usual for friends.
It's fall, cold enough to justify the white hot chocolate I'm drinking. There is a needlessly long silence. I grow bored of it, and go with an old standby:
"Providence is a terrible city."
He says "Yes" at the exact moment she says "No." They gaze at each other. I take the moment to contemplate how neurotic I must be to make myself the third wheel in my own fictionalized interactions.
"Too many things fall apart here. Too much evil never gets repaired, and too much good gets privated for stupid reasons. Only four years here could make HP Lovecraft reasonable."
Someone walks by and calls out to her. She ignores him, thinking about how much of that was about her. "Why do you say that?"
"Do you realize how dumb it is that Claire got the fairy tale and you didn't?"
"Be fair," he says, "neither did you."
"Not the point, I didn't find someone who completely satisfied my every hope and desire like you two. I'm firmly convinced at a less cursed place you would have worked it out."
He's silent. It'll be a while before he'll talk again. "Doesn't it mean more to you than wasted potential and missed opportunities?" she asks.
"No. Vanity of vanities says Qoheleth."
"A lot of things really weren't supposed to work out. If everyone just got what they wanted Heaven would be empty."
"Thomas says happiness is key component of the moral life. If this place kills happiness, it kills souls, just as surely as instant gratification would." Neither ask what this means for me. They know the answer. This is the same conversation we've had for years.
"I miss Sallust," she says. "I miss Cicero," he replies.
I snub out my cigarette and don't respond. It's too hard to pick just one that I miss.
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