The words coming out of our mouths, of my mouth, start to slur together into one soft buzz. Can we not talk, or can I not hear? Then those questions disappear altogether, and I feel something hard under my chin. The bar top. I put my head down and watch through my one winking eye the best friend’s jaunty movements. He lurches forward and leans heavily on the bar. He moves like in a viewfinder, stopping in one pose and starting in another. I realize he’s not in an old-timey movie. As hard as I try to hold them open, my eyes are heavy and blinking.

Black. So quiet you can hear the still.

He was so devoted to me. You would think I liked it but instead, it’s like it made me angry. He was unfazed by the largeness of my personality, the wildness of my emotions. I talked incessantly and he listened. He adored everything I did, even the annoying or gross stuff. He was steady. I could count on him. It drove me mad. I found myself breaking up with him just to watch his expression change, just to feel something. It devastated him. I creeped myself out how I couldn’t feel anything. It’s like he was in a jar, under glass. I couldn’t quite make out what he was saying. I couldn’t touch him. It was like I could press pause or mute and he would just be stuck there, quiet and helpless.