Washout

The apartment we shared was in a constant state of being two steps away from a landfill. Mostly on account of Scott, who never even lifted a finger when it came to cleaning. If he got thrown in a dumpster, I'm sure he wouldn't even mind. He was typical, but the kind of typical that encases you with a sense of comfortable familiarity. There are many like Scot, but he is my Scot. When I lay my head on his chest and hear his heartbeat, his breath tickling my hair, I almost forget that he only listens to garage punk and nothing else. I almost forget that he forgot to pick me up from work that day and left me out in the rain for hours. In those moments I remember that I'm the luckiest guy in the world.