The Day After I Moved Out Of My Parents Place

Ana and I went to a bar where Jimi Hendrix used to drink and drink a lot. We went in after the large man checking IDs asked me exactly how many hearts I planned on breaking tonight and I responded none. We walked in and were a foot and a mile shorter than every sophisticated, 30 something beautiful person in that bar, covered in old framed photos of Grace Kelly, Bob Marley, and some other influentials. Beautiful people sipped gin and tonics and laughed close to one another's faces as we tried to find a place to cram into in the corner so we could talk above the music. She told me how she didn't see this coming: her pseudo-boyfriend wasn't really working out and I could see her faith in that distant thing called love or a connection fading out as quick and as fleeting as the belief was. She sipped her drink through a tiny red straw as I took mouthfulls of beer and told her I wasn't sure about anything anymore because moving around made you lose your balance, and I was so sick but sure about suitcases that boxes made me scared and boy there sure were a lot of them in my apartment currently. She finished her drink quickly and told me she had to get home. I didn't finish my beer, but still put on my coat and told her, maybe I'd catch her next weekend. I walked past the fabulous people smoking cigarettes and walked the longer way back to my apartment because the weather was warm for April.
I called her once I got back to my place and asked if she was alright. She cried on the phone and said she wasn’t sure she could do it. Do what, I asked. Do anything anymore, when will I ever find someone else I can be with, you know, just be with? The universe is a bitch and she think she owes not a person anything and that’s how lots of intelligent people end up dying alone. I let her pause. Well we all die alone, Ana, I said. Not loveable people she sobbed. You’re a loveable person, I said. I’m a loveable person too, I added. I’m fat, she whimpered.
“You’re not fat,” I said.
“Yeah huh I’m fat.”
“You are absolutely not fat. Now, listen, I know right now things--”
“Aleks can I can ask you for your advice, and please be honest because I count on you for these things.”
“Yes, Ana, go ahead, what.”
“Do you think,” she sucked snot into her throat as she finished, “I should slash his tires?”
I paused. I laughed for five minutes in-between Ana telling me to fucking shut up and say how I really felt.
“Fuck yeah I think you should slash his tires,” I said.
“Really?” she said, excited.
“No you idiot.”
“Oh.”
“You really think I feel like bailing you out of jail this weekend?”
“I already walked around his parking lot for three hours yesterday trying to find his van while he was at work but I couldn’t find it--”
“My God, you are actually legally insane. Really, you’ve lost it.”
“Fuck off.”
“Oh you fuck off.”
She sat and sniffled, trying to hold back giggling so she could sound more angry.
“Ana.”
“What.”
“You’ll be okay.”
“You weren’t okay.”
“When in twenty two years of existence have I been okay?” I laughed.
“You know what I mean.”
“I do, and you’re right, but guess who’s still breathing.”
“Not Sylvia Plath.”
“Okay I’m not even going to ask how that relates to this conversation but if you’re going to make me come over and make sure you don’t close your head in the oven and miss bailing you out for causing pancake parties on ex-boyfriend’s tires I--”
“Thank you.”
“For what?”
“For, I don’t know, being there or some shit,” she said.
Silence fell over the phone.
“Yeah, you know it.”
“You deal with a lot of people’s crap, especially mine.”
“Well, you know--”
“I don’t. But thanks. For loads of things.”
“It’s really no problem. You alright? I really should be going. Work tomorrow, yanno.”
“I’ll get there. And you don’t have to say it, I know you’re there if I need anything.”
“Spot on.”
“Night Aleks.”
“Night.”