Do you remember sitting on the couch in the house off Broadway the summer that everything seemed so unreal, the day you told me you were falling in love with me? It was stiflingly hot; the air did not move through that house, whose windows had been painted shut a dozen tenants ago. It was difficult to breathe, and your words struck whatever breath was left from my lungs.
I told you it could not be, that you missed your lover and that was all. But you insisted. You said you didn’t know what to do. I said you’d do nothing, and when next you saw your lover, you would realize it was not me you were falling in love with.
You doubted me, but I loved your lover, and now, all these years later, I thought of that day and smiled. Are you not now glad that we resolved that conundrum with an evening of smoking and playing video games? Because I was better at battle than at betrayal.