The Restless never really goes away, just gets turned down, like the stereo when the telephone rings. It always turns itself back up unexpectedly, and without warning I can't stand to have you in my dance space, because even from a safety distance of a few feet the thought of your fingerprints gives me the unpleasant shivers, and I want to run away. This time around I want to quit everything and change my name to Whiskey Jones, start fronting a jug band called the Bad Idea Factory. I'll need someone to play the washboard and spoons, someone to whistle through their broken tooth, and an old bloodhound to play an old oil drum with his tail. I think that as Whiskey Jones I'll be a mean drunk with a fondness for truckstop cat figurines and half a pinkie missing.
The guilt never really goes away either. This afternoon I was switching my phone book from my old cell phone to a new one, and scrolling I came across Dream's number. There was no reason to keep it, since there's no one to answer, but I'm not ready to delete it just yet either. We should be being friends now, if only things hadn't gone so badly wrong. And as I sat there, staring down at my hand, the guilt turned back up and washed over me in waves, and I felt myself turning delicately blue. The Restless turned down and the sads turned up, and I stopped being Whiskey Jones and went back to plain old samantha.
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