It feels like it should be satisfying to finally get to say, "You broke my heart, and when I finally got it put back together I found it riddled with chips and cracks that still ache when the wind is right." I think it would be satisfying, if the person I was saying it to wasn't too drunk to recall the conversation the next day.
Still, even small victories count, I suppose.
After last call, still feeling wide open and vulnerable and scorched like a field after a fire, I walked down the street with a friend who is a drag queen. We had only gone about a block when we stumbled across what appeared to be four friends who suddenly turned on each other, two of them giving the other two a savage beating on the sidewalk. We retreated a few steps, knowing that to draw attention to ourselves would be to invite a hate crime into our evening. One of the fighters stopped to take his shirt off, a move that still confuses me, and then kicked one of the guys in the face.
Fortunately the police arrived pretty much immediately and, after waiting a moment to see if the scuffle would die down on its own, broke up the fight and arrested the shirtless guy. As we continued down the block to the car we stepped past one man still curled on the pavement, bleeding.
My birthday is in one month, and friends, I still do not want a sumo wrestler table. Please take note.
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