When I told him about a friend of mine, and how I think he’s lonely—that’s why he loves my company so much—he said, “So? We’re all lonely.”
And maybe he’s right, but I can’t get it out of my head, the way he was leaning in to hear my story over his car stereo, the way his face suddenly changed when I said the word “lonely.”
“So?” he spat. “We’re all lonely.”
I know exactly what he meant: that loneliness wasn’t a good enough excuse, that there must be something else, that there’s a bigger reason behind why people continuously want to wind up next to you.
“You know what’s wrong?” he said, this time smiling. We had both sat in silence, thinking, up until this point. In the dark, Chris Martin was singing. “You shouldn’t speak. When you speak, men fall in love with you.”
I made a face—this was the most ridiculous thing I had ever heard—and he laughed, reaching over to squeeze my knee. “I mean it,” he said, his accent heavy. “Don’t speak. To any man. Ever again.”