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Rich is half-dead from TB;
Most of the conversations you have are punctuated by him nearly spitting out his bronchial tubes.
You're not going to remember that, though - you never really recall the lung-hacking part,
Because Rich wouldn't remember that sort of thing about you.
It's rude as hell to make memories out of shit like that.
So instead you make memories out of stupid things,
Like how he curls in the bed-corner like an otter at dinnertime, eyes dark and drawn.
He's always been the physical embodiment of "just sit tight," you think,
Because if he were wound any tighter he'd refuse to tick anymore.
He looks at you sideways. Flashes an open disc at you from the palm of his hand. Makeup.
"Found a compact," he says.
"Why do they call it a compact, anyway? It's no more compact than...I dunno.
A wallet, say.
And there's more in a wallet, yeah? So why does this thing get the title?"
"I don't know, Rich."
He claps the thing closed; he's somehow covered himself in thick white foundation-stuff.
It makes him look like some sort of plaster statue -
Not to say he's a looker, he appears to have been carved by about fifty crack addicts who didn't get their fix that morning,
So they felt the need to make their vision of Michelangelo's David just as full of sick-holes as them.
He's not breathing too well;
You sort of want to smack him in the chest to clear out some of whatever's in there.
"You wouldn't know me anymore," he says. "If you saw me in the street."
You take too long trying to answer, but it's not because it's true;
It's because Rich never talks like that anymore.
Talking about sickness when there's a healthy person in the room is also rude as hell.
"Uh."
"I wouldn't know me anymore, so you wouldn't either, yeah?"
You're eloquent. "I...uh."
He flips the compact open again;
He studies himself like he's preening, only you know he doesn't give a shit.
Vanity's a vice and all.
"I look like hell." He tilts his head and grimaces, just to make an expression,
Then he looks back at you like he's going to spout something that belongs in Revelations -
Something important, something to explain everything.
You could really go for some revelations right about now.
And then it lands.
"...I'm covered in powdery shit."
You shake your head and laugh a bit, and the motion brings a sense of vertigo, it's been so long.
"Yeah, Rich, you're covered in powdery shit."
He smiles at the answer, and for once you're grateful -
Not because he's smiling, but because he's finally pulled a real one out of you.
You have to turn away when you find yourself thinking that for once in Rich's life,
The right thing was infectious.
Most of the conversations you have are punctuated by him nearly spitting out his bronchial tubes.
You're not going to remember that, though - you never really recall the lung-hacking part,
Because Rich wouldn't remember that sort of thing about you.
It's rude as hell to make memories out of shit like that.
So instead you make memories out of stupid things,
Like how he curls in the bed-corner like an otter at dinnertime, eyes dark and drawn.
He's always been the physical embodiment of "just sit tight," you think,
Because if he were wound any tighter he'd refuse to tick anymore.
He looks at you sideways. Flashes an open disc at you from the palm of his hand. Makeup.
"Found a compact," he says.
"Why do they call it a compact, anyway? It's no more compact than...I dunno.
A wallet, say.
And there's more in a wallet, yeah? So why does this thing get the title?"
"I don't know, Rich."
He claps the thing closed; he's somehow covered himself in thick white foundation-stuff.
It makes him look like some sort of plaster statue -
Not to say he's a looker, he appears to have been carved by about fifty crack addicts who didn't get their fix that morning,
So they felt the need to make their vision of Michelangelo's David just as full of sick-holes as them.
He's not breathing too well;
You sort of want to smack him in the chest to clear out some of whatever's in there.
"You wouldn't know me anymore," he says. "If you saw me in the street."
You take too long trying to answer, but it's not because it's true;
It's because Rich never talks like that anymore.
Talking about sickness when there's a healthy person in the room is also rude as hell.
"Uh."
"I wouldn't know me anymore, so you wouldn't either, yeah?"
You're eloquent. "I...uh."
He flips the compact open again;
He studies himself like he's preening, only you know he doesn't give a shit.
Vanity's a vice and all.
"I look like hell." He tilts his head and grimaces, just to make an expression,
Then he looks back at you like he's going to spout something that belongs in Revelations -
Something important, something to explain everything.
You could really go for some revelations right about now.
And then it lands.
"...I'm covered in powdery shit."
You shake your head and laugh a bit, and the motion brings a sense of vertigo, it's been so long.
"Yeah, Rich, you're covered in powdery shit."
He smiles at the answer, and for once you're grateful -
Not because he's smiling, but because he's finally pulled a real one out of you.
You have to turn away when you find yourself thinking that for once in Rich's life,
The right thing was infectious.