Words of Wisdom

"Get ready, then," she says, slightly annoyed. "I'm already late."

He runs to his room and throws on his peacoat and cashmere scarf, two of the most prized possessions in his wardrobe, over the gray sweater and jeans he's already wearing.

He shoves his boots over his feet, already adorned with white athletic socks which he knows is both A) unfashionable, and B) unpractical for the walk back home, but he's in a rush—no time to waste tying frivolous laces while she waits for him in the car.

He hears her honking and runs out of the room, stopping only to turn first the television set off, then the cable box. No point in wasting more money on electricity that doesn't even go to good use.

He fumbles with his house key as he tries to lock the door. The cold air comes as a shock to him—a foreshadow of what to expect on his walk of shame back home.

He pats his coat to reassure himself that he brought a lighter with him. He didn't. Luckily he had left a matchbook in the small interior pocket beforehand for situations such as this.

He gets in the car and they pull out of the driveway.

"Where are you going?" he asks her idly, just to make conversation as they make a quick trip to the liquor store down the block.

"Dave & Busters," she replies. He stays quiet, trying to bite back the bad experience he had there a few years ago. No need to share an upsetting story with someone eager to get the night started.

They make it to the gas station faster than he expected.

She hands him a twenty. As he takes it from her, a bit of guilt consumes him.

"Camel Crushes?"

She nods affirmatively as she texts away on her phone.

He walks into the  liquor store, recognizing the same man behind the counter. It's always the same man, looking bored, looking like he'd rather be at his friend's party, rather be anywhere then there to help out with the family business on a Friday night.

Always the same man behind the counter every time he walks in to indulge in one of his many vices.

The man is on the phone, irritated. "I don't know, the black one," he grumbles. They lock eyes as he enters. He gives him a familiar nod as he continues his unpleasant conversation over the phone, already reaching towards the cigarette stand.

"Marlboro Menthol 100s, and a pack of Camel Crushes," he tells him. "Please."

The man behind the counter produces the familiar green and white pack, plus a small, black one to pair the coupling.

He hands him a twenty; he hands him his change and gives him another nod.

"Thanks. Have a good one."

Proper social etiquette is something he values, especially when dealing with people who have something he wants.

He returns to the car and drops off the black cigarette pack and change back to her through the window.

"Okay, get in," she commands.

He shakes his head. "Naw, I can walk back."

She has genuine concern in her eyes. He doesn't like it. "You sure?"

"Yeah, I do it all the time. I'll be fine." She doesn't believe him, so to assure her he adds, "Besides, you're already late."

Good enough reason, at least she thinks so. She shrugs and exits the car back onto the main street. He's already turned away and walked off in the opposite direction.

He stops to open the fresh pack, takes out a cigarette and lights it with a match. A deep breath brings smoke into his lungs, along with relief.

He exhales it back out, taking the feelings of guilt with it.

He tightens the scarf around his neck, holds his coat closer to his body to protect him from the night chill as he makes his way back home.

As he walks the dark and sullen sidewalk, he can't help but ask himself how he ended up here—alone.

They're only going to fail you, a voice says in the back of his head.

Don't give yourself away. They only disappoint.

He explores what this small, thoughtful voice is saying as he continues walking. He takes a deep drag off his cigarette as he ponders.

"It's true," he suddenly says aloud, slightly surprising himself. "They only let me down."

Encouraged, the voice continues. Why bother trying anymore? They only make you sad.

He gives heed to the voice he hears, as if it's coming from all around him, until he makes his way closer to home, where the sound of a not-so-distant football game begins to drown out everything else around him, even the voice inside his head.

The last thing he hears as he makes his way through the threshold of his home strikes a cord within him.

It's okay to give up now.