It’s sad to be this paranoid in the presence of someone you used to love. But, I have to admit, when I’m in the same room with her and she’s out of my sight, my eyes dart in every direction. I’m looking over both shoulders. I’m waiting for her to snap her fingers or give a signal, and some big guy comes at me from behind. Knowing her like I know her, it could be anybody. It’s impossible to profile potential assailants. It could just as easily be some black, drug-dealing gang-banger as some white, skin-head mother-fucker.

The sad thing is, I’m not afraid it will happen, in all its unlikelihood, but that I want it to happen. I want her to put me out of my misery. I want the opportunity to kill a man in front of her.

This has more to do with my own boredom than my feelings for her.

The desire for closure is a powerful opiate that I must deny myself… one day at a time.

Like the twelve steppers.