The Game Friend
I miss the friend down the street who invites me over to watch a game.
I haven’t had one of those friends, in a while. The game doesn’t matter. I mean it could matter, but it’s not necessary.
What’s necessary is a sofa, and you put your feet up. —No feet touching the ground. Pillows, deflated or worn. There’s a beverage, or a smoke, or both, something salty— but the key is, it’s whatever happens to be around.
There is no getting anything ready, no prep; you switch on the tube. You talk continuously; you watch the game and then there’s the commercials, and you might fall asleep, wake up, and doze off again. One time I talked in my sleep during the game.
It’s a dream date. Your friend always has an extra blanket, an extra jacket. It’s right there, where you left it last time.
Yes, a mate like none other. The kind of friend who hits the mute button “to the manner born”— and you know where the mute button is, too. There’s no fumbling.
Sometimes your friend’s dog or cat …