Trade Off
A group of teenagers stands on the far corner of the intersection, fashionably bored in the smooth summer dusk. I try to remember when I stopped identifying with them, and when I started resenting them, and whether the two were the same moment or if there was an intervening period of indifference.
Their boredom has more emotional significance than my rapt excitement ever could, and I hate that they don’t realize it, that they are trying so hard to hide that, to get rid of it.
Of course, I can buy booze and they can’t; that does pretty much rock.
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