a thing that happened in september

I met him on the sidewalk on a warm night in September, a few days after she left me. He was liquored, looking for a fight or some weed, wearing a charcoal suit; I was ready for anything, and expecting the soft autumn pulse to shake the leaves from the trees, expecting it to stir my blood into a frenzy.

We walked back to his house, into his basement, talking small, calling everyone that we knew that was holding, everyone. He hadn’t shaved that day, and kept rubbing his stubble after he clicked his cell shut. I asked him if he could grow a full beard, told him that I wished I could.

Later, after we had smoked some pot that he bought with two twenties and a White Stripes album, he told me about laying out surveying lines in the north, about smoking cigarettes while your back is cushioned by a pine trunk, about getting the boot from residence because he punched a hole through a wall while drinking whisky.

The basement had taken on a lot of smoke, and I only noticed this when I was having trouble seeing him. He was gray, spectral, for that moment before I realized what had happened. I told him it was smoky, and he told me that the only way to get rid of the smoke was to smoke more.

I told him that she didn’t care, had never cared. He packed a bowl, and told me to smoke it. I did, and as I did, he told me that there was no reason to get caught up on her, that she wasn’t worth it.

As we walked to the bar, he loosened his tie, smoked another cigarette, punched my shoulder. I didn’t want to thank him; I told him I’d buy him a pint. The air was thick with the odour of rotting leaves and young lives.