1648 c/o Chas Carey

Westphalia

These are the lines we have drawn. Before today, I said things, I did things, and I admit, I was wrong, even though deep down inside I still feel like I’m probably right. Shakespeare once wrote “we are the makers of manners,” and maybe that’s true. Do the English even read Shakespeare any more? Who knows. Bad times over there. But I’m putting off the issue of us. Like usual, you’d say.

It wasn’t really war at first, but I don’t think anyone would’ve called it love. We were just there. Lots of shouting arguments in the early mornings, at my place or yours. Heads rolled. There were discussions in dark corridors.

I grew to learn the names of places I had no idea I was unwelcome in. You kept wrecking my reputation during the day and coming back home to me at night. Sometimes we sat across the table from one another, staring until we fell asleep. Why do you stay together if this is what you do? Someone asked me that once. I said I didn’t know any other way. I don’t think you did, either, though.

But yeah, I treated you badly. I never let you be who you wanted to be when you were around me, because you scared me, you and your modern love. I wanted to be the man for all seasons, the guy who went around known to have done everything, been anywhere, and you punched a hole right through all that.

So, sure, yes, I yelled. When it wasn’t going to work, I tried to throw you out. And when I couldn’t, I forced us together. Like I said, I still feel right in some ways. Like I deserved to feel new and you took it away. But these are the lines we have drawn. We can say all we like, but what we do day in, day out, that’s our own business, now. You have your space and I have mine.

I think we’ve got no choice but to try. I mean, you’ve seen through me. I can’t make you un-see. But we’re old enough and tired enough and after all of this maybe we know better. Maybe we can hold each other at arm’s length instead of clutched together screaming in the heat of the night. For a while. Maybe.