He Lost

July 18, 2009
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We talk to him
For an hour?
No, at least two.
At least.
He plays with us.
His words mean nothing to him:
But mean everything to us.
He speaks as if we are the only ones he has ever wanted.
And we beleive his lies.
Which is what he wants.
He says he's outside now.
He turned the headlights off,
So he wouldn't wake the parents.
We peek out the window;
Not knowing what to expect.
The car sits on the side of the road.
Headlights off, windows black.
We turn the light out in the room.
Then walk to the halway.
We hang up so we don't wake the family.
They are sleeping.
The phone vibrates:
A text.
"Come on, get out here."
It reads; but now we pause.
We shouldn't.
And we know it.
The dog barks in the backyard.
We rush to quiet him.
Too late.
The dad comes out:
We hide in the kitchen.
He is still outside.
We know.
The dog is quiet now.
And the dad is back in his room.
We run back to the bed and call him.
"No, go away."
We tell him.
"But why? We could have so much fun!"
We hang up and open the blind again.
His car starts and he drives away.
We don't answer the phone any more that night.
He lost.

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