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Monday, Apr. 02, 2018
6:33 p.m.
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Pre-emptive Strike ] >>

I drove the path to my parents' house, the house I've known over twenty years now, on my way to his house. I thought about coming to him, then decided no, he can meet me this last fraction of a way, and I sat on the picnic bench I swore used to be parallel to his street rather than perpendicular.

He called my name from across the grass, then said he was expecting me to come in. "I'm sorry," I lied, "it's been so long I wasn't sure which house was yours anymore."

Things were the way they always were when they were good. I told my brother when I got home that it's only a matter of time before he disappoints me and I need to stop talking to him for another six or twelve months, depending.

"Just stop talking to him for another year now," my brother said, "that's what I do."

"Pre-emptive spite?" I asked. Yes.

I listened to You Worry Me on repeat on the way home.

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