I watch her face grow a smile and rain a laugh. I watch her eyes as they watch his. When she looks away from him and toward me, the gaze is unfamiliar, even distant.
Someone else enters with a beer and hugs one of them. Everyone breaks into a chorus of laughter. I want to tell them, as we sit here together, happy and sociable, that I haven't had an honest conversation in years. That I am living on a metaphysical island, and that they are the sea. I want to tell them that I love them, but that they will not let me in. They won't let me in. Don't mind me. I'm just a spectator.
And I don't say anything because I know that's what I am. They call me "friend," but their hands are cold on my shoulders.
I came here to write something honest, maybe even beautiful, maybe even poetic.
I suppose I'll have to settle for honest.
I drag at my cigarette and watch these people around me. They share their smiles and pass their memories between each other, and though I'm there with them, they don't ask me to join them.
This is the second time in a week I've thought about suicide.
Someone lights up a joint, and as it arrives in my hands the group starts to sing in cluttered, half-hearted voices:
"Happy birthday to you . . ."
I think I'd jump off a building . . .
"Happy birthday to you . . ."
A gun would be easy . . .
"Happy birthday dear Bennnyyyyyy . . ."
I'd settle for a razor blade . . .
"Happy birthday to you . . .
happy twentieth, Ben!"