I’ve become accustomed to the trip into the town. The train that does not empty, but becomes fuller as it nears the middle of it all. I do the rounds, but I don’t really pay a lot of attention. Passing windows. I’m there to see a friend. This is my only real excuse for getting back into town anymore.
I’ve become accustomed to the drinks and the often unsatisfying food that we share or not share depending on the order. I don’t eat out much. Money’s too tight for anything more than an appetizer at half price. It soaks up what it needs to. This is my only real excuse to grab a cheap bite anymore.
I’ve become accustomed to the conversation shifts. My tide beating against your calm. The distractions that we both encounter. I just mask it better than you do. Or at least I think I do. At the end of it there’s never hostility or resentment. This is my only real excuse to pay attention anymore.
I’ve become accustomed to the years and the days and the idle hours and the myriad of friends and associates that you share. On occasion I bring one to the table and you are warm and ready to receive. I have two close friends that did not cheat me and you’re the one that’s still alive.
The Best Years of Our Lives 