You threw the game even though pity is my least favourite thing. Favours aren’t always positive. Sometimes they’re cold tap water on a too late burn. You wanted the moment to last longer. Problem is, every moment needs to last extra seconds and this is only more impossible the older we get, once degenerative disease has a dandruff hold.

You potted a red, said “Two shots to you,” like I didn’t know the rules, I’d take a shot you’d essentially paid for, that this didn’t undo me slightly, the same way everyone’s eyes have extra sheen since diagnosis broke them like Easter eggs in rough hands, bowl-less.

But stretching encounters. Okay. I’ll eat that excuse. I understand it. Because each time with you is never enough. I want you in bumper size, basically. Multi-buy Poundland. Special Edition years later with added commentary no one really wants or listens to. But I do.


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