I could tell by the way that he spoke
that it was family. There's a certain type
of spite reserved solely for ones blood.
A question came and stumped him
shortly into their conversation.
"I'm at...uhhh...uhhhhh...Casey's,"
he explained into his cell phone
as if I weren't there.
To help perpetuate the illusion
I sank further into the crack between
the cushions of my couch
hiding inside the glass of orange juice
that I'd been nursing in a vain attempt
to shake the Sunday morning hangover.
"I'll be home in fifteen minutes," he barked.
A nasal voice squeaked some obscenity
just before he hung up and pocketed his phone.
The three of us stared at the television screen.
My hand reached down to unpause the video game
that'd been interrupted by the unfortunate ring.
We finished the game we were playing.
Both of them.
"Well that was sure obvious," the third party said
after our friend had headed to his house.
"I guess my name's been scratched from the record."
It wasn't the first time.
I hoped it was the last.
I was tired of feeling bad for being.
Nonexistence is a fair price to pay
for keeping that friendship, though.
He'd played his tough role masterfully;
I couldn't deny him that.
And when the time comes he'll know.
He'll know.
Hell knows.
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