Themselves, Only More So

I never exactly felt a part of things. But then, that was how it always was with me. It was mawkish and self-indulgent and I just wanted to go home to figure out what the hell I was going to do next. But as usual, I was flattered to be there, and it didn't occur to me to do anything except stay.

It was a tiny house. There was no work to constrain us. Everyone was themselves, only more so. They were my best and only friends, but I wanted it to be September.

Peter's Friends

Six years ago, we sat up drinking red wine and smoking fag after fag after fag. We had finished finals weeks earlier, but nobody wanted to leave. We had the house all summer, so all summer we drank in the day, slept in each other's beds and let the bills come in - white and then red. No-one talked about the future, except to list all the things they didn't want to do next. Every night we cooked a Bacchinalian feast. We dressed for dinner and made speeches. Dirty dishes collected in every room. The rest of the time we fought and formed factions and fucked - but never each other. We reminisced and then chided each other for being prematurely nostalgic. No-one worked, no-one cleaned, and only I got up before noon.