A Series Of Whispers Representing A Shout
an excerpt

As we’re making the long trek back to his apartment, I can’t help but say to no one in particular “it was the best of times, it was the worst of times.” Something about Dean’s silence tells me that he agrees. Sometimes when you’ve known someone for enough time, you can tell what they’re going to say without them needing to say it, and this was one such time.
We stop off at a 24 hour supermarket and get 40 oz.’s of some some kind of wine cooler and walk down the train tracks that lead toward his apartment.
“I’ve always wanted to have an open container in public. It was one of my Dad’s fondest memories from when he was a young college alcoholic like us.”
“Well, I wouldn’t say we’re alcoholics, but I understand the sentiment. There is something awesome about it.”
“Keep an eye out for cops, though. We’ll toss the bags and keep walking as if nothing happened if we see any.”
“OK,” I say semi-muffled by the bottle as I take a good swallow of it. “So what happened with Christy? I wasn’t there, so…”
“Oh, you know. Just the same old shit we argue about when we get drunk. She’s very insecure about her looks and she thinks I flirted with her sister a few weeks ago. And I don’t think she takes college seriously enough, which leads to more fights and bullshit about how I’m an art student so I don’t know what I’m talking about and…you know what, fuck it. It’ll work out like it always does for us.” He stops at this, thinking that the mention of things working out for him will hurt me, because things with Julia didn’t work out.
“Don’t say anything. It’s OK. I’ll be fine eventually.” I finish the rest of the bottle and toss it unto someone else’s microcosm-patch-of-grass. “I feel better already.”
“Remember when we tried to give up drinking last month? It seems so naïve now, especially after tonight, and, well, the cabin.”
I considered this, feeling like so much—too much—had changed in a month. Only drinking had seemed to stay the same. Then I said simply:
“We make lousy soberites.”
Again, Dean’s silence agreed, though this time he chucked his bottle and it landed on the sidewalk ahead of us, the glassy thunk of the impact somehow more startling because it didn’t break than if it had.