I’m sorry for leaving like that. Really, I am. What were we talking about anyway? God, it’s been how long? Six months since our last coffee and cigarettes. I’m sorry, again. Very sorry.
That waitress isn’t here anymore. She was with you for how long? Four, five months? She left last week? Jesus, no wonder you look like hell.
Where was I? I was gone. I left after a week and drove to the coast – the Gulf – and I sat in a little beach house, one that had probably been there since the 50s and I ate crawfish and I watched the tide come in every afternoon and drink a bottle of wine every day. Every single day.
Of course I did it to forget. She is gone and not gone like your waitress, angry because you went to one too many football games, but gone forever. I watched her disappear for months with that damned cancer and now that everything is settled all I could do was leave. Of course that’s why I was so angry, so caustic the last time I saw you.
And I am sorry. So let’s talk about your waitress.