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I am not pointing fingers.. I’m just assuming the character of whoever he is supposed to be.

Vintage, why not?

This is the sort of question that demands not to be taken seriously. Even if I did have an answer on the tip of my tongue, or lurking somewhere in the depths of my–strictly hypothetical–soul, I wouldn’t give it. Whatever happened to life’s great mystery? Whatever happened to mystery?

People behave as though having the answer to a question–any answer at all, not even the right answer, since they’re all scarcely differentiable–constitutes some sort of triumph. Knowledge doesn’t make anything more tangible…perhaps that’s not the right word. Nothing endures simply because you know about it; quite the contrary. I feel as though I’ve been asked to identify a valuable mineral deposit so that it might be mined. I’d much rather sit back on my reclining chair and say, “There’s gold in those hills” than begin the painstaking process of excavation, refinement, and distribution to international markets.

…and here I am, in grave danger of answering the question. There’s value in obscurity. I prize questions above answers, and this was a particularly insipid specimen.

I pronounced her gone not long ago, and absence isn’t something people write about. We memorialize. Here should be a list of the hundred little things she’ll take with–and I don’t have one. I can’t…I refuse to break her down into component parts.

Because one of the many would be the part that loves him, and what are the dimensions of that? He makes her laugh.

He makes her happy. That is and should be the end of it. She may love Notwithstanding her feelings for me, I’ve never…she’s not seeing me for the happiness I bring her. I don’t know that I’ve ever brought her happiness. Well, maybe during our period of protracted flirtation, when she could roll her eyes and smirk and not have to entertain the paralyzing notion of any sort of permanence.

Perhaps I thought that in avoiding it–that trite trio of syllables–I could somehow invest them with meaning (that I thought they lacked meaning says…), but all things being equal, he’d only have to say, “so do I.” A glance over his shoulder, a different three little words. It’s so simple–is that the problem? I can’t fathom simplicity. Right now I can’t fathom how I was ever able to touch her, not if she was always en route to elsewhere.

She’s happy with him. Happiness…well, I know it when I see it.

I know to take one giant step back.

I don’t torment myself by imagining them having sex. Sex I wouldn’t mind (when do I ever). It’s thinking about conversation, casual references, shared acquaintances, shorthand for a history she’ll never tell me and never want to. They were probably laughing at a chance word that reminded them of a fifteen-year-old inside joke.

Them.

If i ever see her, the genius is in the if.

Nobody’s going to see her.

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About Humbug

My past has a way of making my present feel jealous of the future.