Smoke Screen

Were drunk. This is usual. I step outside to calm my nerves. Large crowds are fun to some, but as much as I try to ignore it my anxiety cannot always be contained. I knew I would find you out there, smoking with the other forsaken out in the cold. I have lost my other friend, one of the only girls I have ever been able to stand. I understand why she is such a goddess to you, but cannot understand why with as much as you love her you can’t straighten the fuck up, find your dignity, and take her as rightfully yours.
It is the first weekend in spring, but in Chicago that doesn’t mean much as far as the weather goes. Our breath floats away from us as we shake and dance to keep warm. You wear a shirt you think makes you look cool, but I think makes you look like the rest of the musicians at the party. You are talking to some one else, and I rudely interrupt, bitching that every conversation I invite myself into is about things far too serious for such an occasion. Your smoker friend leaves before I can be properly introduced, and you let me in on the secret that once again I had stuck my nose in where it didn’t belong.
I know the look. You are not the only one I have seen it from tonight, this week, this month, and from you I know it best. You don’t realize it but when you drink your soul tries to escape from your cool façade. You also don’t realize that you are not alone, either in situation, need for forgiveness, or in the poor sap you have found to hear your confession. It’s funny that a girl known as evil should be looked up to in such a light.
You begin tell me what you story. Past secrets. You have dodged a bullet, and it is your happiness in the fact that is the sin. Your confession is low, your eyes are low, and you are a flood of drunken unthought-of words. With you there is always a woman involved. I ask who. You tell me and I am not surprised. I remember the lives around me like road maps, and this falls into place instantly. Growing up with liars will teach you this handy trick, and you should know, my friend, you are one of the few to pass the test.
It is only when you are drunk that you let the mask down revealing your sadness. We all have it you say. That’s how it goes. Were the lucky ones, you say, and I know your right.
I ask a few more questions, but they are for you, not me. Your smoke drifts between us, a confessional screen to hide our identities. It is a screen for you, for practice has made me use to this interaction. You haven’t ever told any one this before. I wonder then what you were really talking about with your smoker friend before, and how this has been bursting at your seams. I tell you everything happens for a reason. I point out how it shook you up? You agree, but I know you have not changed a thing, and probably will not until your life finally does catch up with you. I do my best. I am no saint in this world. I am younger than most. I am less experienced and most likely less damaged. Is this why you find me? Corrupt me with your sadness and your stories. Are you warning me, or just hopeful that your secret has found a place to finally die?
I envy you. I think you also envy me.
Wishing to leave this moment, and knowing not what to say I hand you my glass of wine for this is the chalice of my blood, which for you and for many shall be shed onto the remission of sins.
As far as we are concerned, you have been forgiven. Go now in peace to love and serve the lord.