n'est pas

He had read "The Stranger" at least a dozen times, judging by the dog-eared copy that managed to find it's way across the floor and into my hands. He could quote Camus. I could quote Ayn Rand. Our so-called intellectual conversations were a complete joke, the funniest part being that I didn't necessarily agree with or even like Ayn Rand except that my Libertarian father forced "Anthem" into my hands as soon as I put down The Babysitter's Club.
"And I certainly have no interest in architecture."
I was never ever going to find time to read his favorite book. I was going to remain a disappointment, not wanting to redeem myself at these late stages.
It's a funny thing, being responsible for someone's self-torture. No one trained me for that growing up, not at any stage, not in any capacity. For months a storm cloud had been gathering in the corner that no one wanted to talk about, and we stare at the ceiling, at the floor, anywhere anywhere else.
You stay on your side of the bed, I'll stay on mine.
Don't think I'm not grateful for your contributions to my nomadic lifestyle.
But none of that funny business, okay?
"Do you want to go get some coffee?" Oh god, not coffee. Coffee requires traveling time, cooling time, drinking time, and I'd probably end up paying for both cups. (It should be noted now that some people study cheap like science, and become so good at it that no one really even notices.)
"I have...crap. To, um, do." It wasn't awkward, it was just time. I scrambled for my shoes. I was sleepy, and in party clothes, and was stumbling to my car. This was definitely not in the plan.
My upper hand needs to be slapped, I kept repeating, until it became a bad song lyric or bad grafitti wisdom. Write it down then tear it up.
And the whole time Camus was baking in the passenger-seat sun. Maybe I'll just read the last five pages.