Two Words
It’s amazing what two words can do. They can turn a person you think you know very well into a perfect stranger.
I used to say you are the coolest guy I know. I realize now I have to take that back, along with the all the other nice things I said about you, along with all nice times that I must admit I shared with you.
I fucked up, all right. But doesn’t everyone, at one point or another? Still, friends don’t say that to each other. Oh, but then again, I doubt now if we ever were friends. Okay, you told me all about the superficial things about yourself. You eagerly told me about all your love interests and bragged about all your achievements. And I listened equally eagerly, if not more. But after everything, I realize I don’t even know you.
The true you, at least. You paraded a personality that could fool anyone. It’s all a masquerade. But the curtain’s down now. I applaud you for a wonderful performance. I saw everything – I was in the front row (with popcorn, as Alanis would want to say).
I apologized. You know I meant it. I explain myself and you slap with those two words. Hell, perhaps I deserve them. But that doesn’t matter any more, does it? You saw what a jerk I could become; I saw what an asshole you could become. I guess we’re quits.
The two other people involved in this brouhaha, more than you, deserve my apology. It is them, not you, whom I betrayed. It is they, not you, who have the right to hit me with those two words. But they did not. All they did was to make me realize the gravity and the effects of my blunder — and then accept my apology.
I guess sometimes life shows you know who your true friends are in the strangest of ways.
After everything, though, I have to admit I still owe you my own two words, words that may be the last thing I ever say to you, the way things look: I’m sorry.
