... the drive from the bar to greg’s place was not a long one ( taxi driver making half - hummed conversation over the flow of the speaker, a song vibrating against his lower thigh that shiv would’ve liked : he likes to think so, anyway, as if he’d ever really known what she liked ). there is bitterness plaguing his tongue, the threatening dip of alcohol mixed with unbridled guilt ( pity and hatred have always tasted the same ). he asks the taxi driver to circle the block around greg’s apartment and he silently complies. tom can guess the other’s thoughts, always too worried about being judged ... drunk and foolish and not wanting to return home, that’s how he’s seen.
he doesn’t deny it. can’t deny it. he doesn’t know enough about who he is to define who he isn’t ( the car rolls to a stop and tom rolls it, sliding too many notes into the driver’s open palm ). the slow ascent upstairs, the waiting outside greg’s door as his fist pounds against wood. ‘ greg? what the fuck, greg? ’ a greeting : the face of greg hirsch, owlish with his lack of sleep, blinking cow - eyed into the flickering lights overhead. ‘ did you get a kick out of fucking us over, huh, you sick fuck? ’ @greghirs
