Idk Yet

Last month my boyfriend, Mark, came into the living room while I was watching TV. He didn’t sit, which was the first red flag. The second came in the hushed form of those infamous four words: “We need to talk.”

There was a program playing, some roundtable discussion where the panelists debated the ideologies of Buddhism. My finger grazed the remote’s mute button, but I kept the volume on, hoping the panelists’ words would eclipse Mark’s.

It didn’t work.

“It’s not you, Trevor, it’s me,” he began, right before telling me how I made everything about myself and he just couldn’t take it. I said nothing because I didn’t want to prove his point. Then he left and took eighteen months of memories with him into the dusty Las Vegas night.

Well, I decided to follow the teachings of the show and take the Buddhist approach: four Budweisers and two joints.

When that didn’t work, I opted for the casino, since I was already losing things.

It was on a whim that I grabbed Oreo, usually silent and antisocial, during one of his coughing fits, tucked him under my armpit like a fifteen-pound black-and-white football, and shambled out the door.

We staggered downtown through the palm trees and lights of the Vegas strip. Colors bright as the future illuminated the casinos. Eventually I chose one glowing hot pink named Flamingo.

The bouncer out front stopped me before I could enter. He gestured to Oreo. “No cats allowed.”

“He’s a service cat, bro,” I said, slurring my words.

“No.”

It wasn’t until I offered him my last two joints, which I’d been saving for after the casino, when I could legally file for bankruptcy, that he finally relented.

The stench of tobacco and desperation congested the casino. In the poker room we sidled up to a sparsely-populated table. Oreo sat on the chair beside mine. After I exchanged my life savings for a pile of black tokens, he wobbled on his hind legs, flopped his paws down on the emerald felt, and coughed on the stack of poker chips I’d split with him.

“My friend’s playing too,” I interpreted.Last month my boyfriend, Mark, came into the living room while I was watching TV. He didn’t sit, which was the first red flag. The second came in the hushed form of those infamous four words: “We need to talk.”

There was a program playing, some roundtable discussion where the panelists debated the ideologies of Buddhism. My finger grazed the remote’s mute button, but I kept the volume on, hoping the panelists’ words would eclipse Mark’s.

It didn’t work.

“It’s not you, Trevor, it’s me,” he began, right before telling me how I made everything about myself and he just couldn’t take it. I said nothing because I didn’t want to prove his point. Then he left and took eighteen months of memories with him into the dusty Las Vegas night.

Well, I decided to follow the teachings of the show and take the Buddhist approach: four Budweisers and two joints.

When that didn’t work, I opted for the casino, since I was already losing things.

It was on a whim that I grabbed Oreo, usually silent and antisocial, during one of his coughing fits, tucked him under my armpit like a fifteen-pound black-and-white football, and shambled out the door.

We staggered downtown through the palm trees and lights of the Vegas strip. Colors bright as the future illuminated the casinos. Eventually I chose one glowing hot pink named Flamingo.

The bouncer out front stopped me before I could enter. He gestured to Oreo. “No cats allowed.”

“He’s a service cat, bro,” I said, slurring my words.

“No.”

It wasn’t until I offered him my last two joints, which I’d been saving for after the casino, when I could legally file for bankruptcy, that he finally relented.

The stench of tobacco and desperation congested the casino. In the poker room we sidled up to a sparsely-populated table. Oreo sat on the chair beside mine. After I exchanged my life savings for a pile of black tokens, he wobbled on his hind legs, flopped his paws down on the emerald felt, and coughed on the stack of poker chips I’d split with him.

“My friend’s playing too,” I interpreted.Last month my boyfriend, Mark, came into the living room while I was watching TV. He didn’t sit, which was the first red flag. The second came in the hushed form of those infamous four words: “We need to talk.”

There was a program playing, some roundtable discussion where the panelists debated the ideologies of Buddhism. My finger grazed the remote’s mute button, but I kept the volume on, hoping the panelists’ words would eclipse Mark’s.

It didn’t work.

“It’s not you, Trevor, it’s me,” he began, right before telling me how I made everything about myself and he just couldn’t take it. I said nothing because I didn’t want to prove his point. Then he left and took eighteen months of memories with him into the dusty Las Vegas night.

Well, I decided to follow the teachings of the show and take the Buddhist approach: four Budweisers and two joints.

When that didn’t work, I opted for the casino, since I was already losing things.

It was on a whim that I grabbed Oreo, usually silent and antisocial, during one of his coughing fits, tucked him under my armpit like a fifteen-pound black-and-white football, and shambled out the door.

We staggered downtown through the palm trees and lights of the Vegas strip. Colors bright as the future illuminated the casinos. Eventually I chose one glowing hot pink named Flamingo.

The bouncer out front stopped me before I could enter. He gestured to Oreo. “No cats allowed.”

“He’s a service cat, bro,” I said, slurring my words.

“No.”

It wasn’t until I offered him my last two joints, which I’d been saving for after the casino, when I could legally file for bankruptcy, that he finally relented.

The stench of tobacco and desperation congested the casino. In the poker room we sidled up to a sparsely-populated table. Oreo sat on the chair beside mine. After I exchanged my life savings for a pile of black tokens, he wobbled on his hind legs, flopped his paws down on the emerald felt, and coughed on the stack of poker chips I’d split with him.

“My friend’s playing too,” I interpreted.