So he's dressed a little differently and he has a halo-like light above his head.

So what?
(Doesn't stop him from pinching my beer at the pub.)
(Or ditching me when he finds a skirt he likes. 'I'll be right back' my ass.)

So what if sometimes, when no one's looking, snaps his fingers and lights a fag with the fire on his thumb?
(He still smokes indoors.)
(Even when I ask him not to.)

So what if he can speak a thousand languages you've never heard of?
Aramaic Etruscan Old Egyptian Latin Sumerian Ahom Minaean Andoa Leonese
(Trust me, most of those pretty words are cusses anyway.)
(I know because he taught me most of them when we were kids.)

So what if, when he's drunk enough, his footsteps sprout cracks in the pavement when I have to walk him home.
(Old ladies trip on the cracks and the city has to pay for repairs.)
(They've been blaming earthquakes for it for years.)

And don't let the scars on his back fool you. He got those when we were ten and he jumped off the garage, into the bed of his dad's pickup truck,
(And missed)
And we spent the whole day at the hospital,
(Getting yelled at)
And now he uses them to impress birds.
(He says he didn't mean for the scars to come out looking so good, but nowadays he doesn't complain: he says girls dig wings.)

So what if streetlights flicker when he passes, or dogs go silent and stare at him when he goes by,
Or that stray cats bring him dead mice and birds,
Or that when he picks those cold birds up and kisses them on the head,
they shake off the chill and fly away.

Or that when he pisses outside, flowers bloom where it lands,
(We don't talk about that)
(Because really there are just some things you don't need to know, you know?)

Or that sometimes when I have to drive him home,
(Because he never has cash for a cab, and I'm the only one who answers his calls,)
And he's lying down in the back seat,
call out where traffic will be ahead of time,
tell me to stop seconds before a kid darts into the road,
sneeze and the lights go from red to green.
(I tell him that can't be good for the lights)
(He tells me he doesn't care, we have to get home now)

So he's dressed a little differently and he has a halo-like light above his head.
So what?
Doesn't change the fact that he still owes me petrol money.
("I'll pay you back" like hell.)
Or that he leaves his shit all over my side of the flat.
Or borrows my stuff without asking.
Or eats my food.

I don't know why I put up with this. I really don't. I ought to leave, right now. Ought to pack up my stuff, move out, and let him pick up his own messes for once. Let him pay the rent. Let him clean up his act-

Tap on the top of the head. I look up from my spot on the couch.
"Thanks for picking me up last night. Sorry about calling so late--"
He's still a little hungover, I can tell.
"Oh, and here."
He hands me a crumpled few notes.
"For the petrol."
"Right," I say. "Thanks."

He wanders off into the kitchen, and-- ah hell.
I'm not mad anymore.
Maybe I won't leave today.
Maybe tomorrow.

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