East Avenue
10
The more I thought about Joey, the more I felt he was a missed opportunity. A chance at being normal, not feeling like a freak regardless if I was one or not. Everything in my life stays neutral. It never changes. At a standstill and I’m too busy noticing everything to have a chance to take comfort in this. The face I make when I wake up, the look on mom’s face when dad says he’ll be home late for dinner again, having Joey come over after school so we can watch shit on Netflix and bitch about people we don’t care about and never will, talk about books and Workaholics and pot and ugly things and things that are nice like the documentary I watched about FDR (“You better not fucking make me watch that, Garrett. I’m still trying to pull through Cat’s Cradle, which means lay off your educational bullshit for at least two months. Yeah, I know. I’m a goddamn trooper, and I’m amazed I put up with you too.”) and how remember the time we lit that girl’s backpack on fire and she cried and we got suspended for five days. It’s all the same stuff, different day. What’s changing is me. And I’m not the only one noticing it.
Joey’s been angry. He’s not himself now that I’m nicer. Now that I have it figured out, he doesn’t know how to respond. I touch him more, any chance I can get. He makes it easy. Why didn’t I do this before? Brush my hand with his when he reaches for something to eat out of the fridge, run my fingers through his hair because it’s so fucking soft and beautiful it’s therapeutic compared to everything else in the room. It’s hard to comprehend why he’s not on the same page right along with me. Joey seems put off by it. Unsure, suspicious, mad, whatever emotion he tries to convey to me when he glances up and stares like he’s seeing me for the first time. This plan I’ve made out for myself, to slowly ease in to telling him the fact that he’s more important than I ever anticipated, played more of a role in my life than I’d of ever allowed if it wasn’t Joey, wasn’t working. Maybe I can’t undo what years of friendship have already done to him. He’s not ugly. Am I the ugly one? Have I been this whole time? It's hard to tell.
Joey’s been angry. He’s not himself now that I’m nicer. Now that I have it figured out, he doesn’t know how to respond. I touch him more, any chance I can get. He makes it easy. Why didn’t I do this before? Brush my hand with his when he reaches for something to eat out of the fridge, run my fingers through his hair because it’s so fucking soft and beautiful it’s therapeutic compared to everything else in the room. It’s hard to comprehend why he’s not on the same page right along with me. Joey seems put off by it. Unsure, suspicious, mad, whatever emotion he tries to convey to me when he glances up and stares like he’s seeing me for the first time. This plan I’ve made out for myself, to slowly ease in to telling him the fact that he’s more important than I ever anticipated, played more of a role in my life than I’d of ever allowed if it wasn’t Joey, wasn’t working. Maybe I can’t undo what years of friendship have already done to him. He’s not ugly. Am I the ugly one? Have I been this whole time? It's hard to tell.