Grief, my new buddy, walks alongside as Time nudges us along. Time stops, looks over his shoulder, and mockingly laughs, shaking his head in contempt.
"Keep up you fuckin' pussies!" he yells like the drill sergeant he is, then laughs to himself. Grief nervously laughs too and mutters with no originality, "yeah - fuckin' pussies!"
"But, what time is it?" I ask. Beads of fatigue and desperation dot my brow.
"What does it matter?" is Time's indifferent reply. He turns back and moves on. "Fuckin' pussies" he mutters barely audible under his breath. No remorse. He is such the prick, but do I dare say it to his face? No. He is one of my best buddies.
How long before I get to die, I momentarily muse. Then shake out that thought like the creases in wrinkled clothes. Grief just rolls his eyes, smirks in bemusement, and sighs and we continue to stagger, arms around each other, like two drunks after a night of too many single-malts and stories. Time, ever the cocky one, leads us into the evening mist, looking for trouble.
My two new best buddies.
I hate them both.