You think about him on the drive home between the spurts of howling along with Father John Misty; “chateau lobby,” you croon together. You need to get out more, that’s probably all it is. Seven minute conversations seem so much more important and meaningful than they are when you haven’t had a conversation of any amount of minutes in months. Are your headlights actually on? You’re not really sure, driving your mom’s expensive car with both hands clutching the steering wheel like it’s a driver’s training session. You can see well enough anyway, and you can’t risk removing a hand to fiddle with the strange knobs sticking out from behind the wheel.
“You took off early to go cheat your way through film school!”
Misty’s singing the same song over and over because you just bought it on iTunes and are still in that particular phase of new-song-listening. By the 30th time you’ve pretty much got the lyrics down.
It doesn’t feel like anything, particularly. His blue eyes or green or whatever are far north now and you’re not trying to chase them down. But it is sad in a way, like the grocery bag boy, forgotten about a few hours later after a brief rush of love. There is a person there. You can be apathetic all you want, but it’s still true.