Fred Aiken Writing

“I don’t know if I can take this anymore.”

“What?”

“Life, Tom. Life. I just don’t think I can keep going.”

“All right. That’s something.”

“You’re not helping.”

“Don’t you think this is something you should be telling, I dunno, your therapist, a doctor, hell, maybe even a cop? They seem like they might be equipped to handle this conversation.”

“You’re my best friend. Why can’t I confide in you?”

“Because I don’t care.”

“You don’t care if I kill myself?”

“Not particularly.”

The phone cut out. I checked my signal, but it, along with my hopes of connecting with Tom, the guy I met outside the arcade, or having a healthy conversation with a compatriot flittered off into the mist, never to be heard from again.