If You’re Going To Hell, I’ll Just Come Pick You Up

Jack says, “Shouldn’t we hedge bets? Pick a side? Pretend we know where we’re going when we don’t, and we’re less sure than we were in primary school?” But I wavered, had a penchant for stories that led to performances in front of parents, even though I was relegated each time a play was cast, was always an extra angel, a shepherd with a well tied head dress.

“Couldn’t you tell,” I ask him, “if I was half-hearted about this? Wouldn’t you know that every word was a construct or lie designed to keep your interest, all just part of an end game, not about you at all.”

“I don’t think I can tell now what you’re thinking,” he tells me, and I ask, “Really? You can’t tell now?” and Jack replies, “If you asked me how many fingers you were holding up as you held them in front of me I wouldn’t see, I couldn’t know. I’m trying so hard to read you sometimes I overlook the simple stuff. If I knew how you felt about god, gods, a god, I wouldn’t ask, but I don’t. I don’t know where you think we go when we’re gone.”

“Nowhere,” I tell him, “or anywhere. Kind of where we think we should be. At the moment, I’m stuck in the middle, trying to choose, deciding if it’s either/or or neither at all, because we’re fucked every way I see it.”

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