Vita Obscura

You find me sitting on the steps at the rear of the Brube, on a kind of side porch, though it’s very small, barely large enough for me to sit on. Which means there’s no room for you. I’m sulking. That’s pretty obvious. I’m smoking and wishing I weren’t. Or maybe I’m not and I’m wishing I were. You decide. Whichever is mopier and sadder looking.

You ask me what’s wrong.

Iz sucks, I say. Let me just start there. No, wait. Lemme back up.

Iz is the kind of fucker that never has a cigarette. They’re always broke, too. And asking you for money. Not because they can’t work or don’t have access to cash; they just spend it faster than they can get it. You might have some sympathy for that, and that’s fine.

Who’s Iz, you might wonder.

I don’t say. I continue:

I think Roxy fucked them once, but don’t hold me to that. Otherwise, they were more or less a social pariah. I have some sympathy for that, you know, usually. But Iz is the kind of shitrat that will burn you for your kindness.

And Bubble™ isn’t really a thing yet. I’ve probably fucked that up before, but you don’t know or care about the continuity either, so it doesn’t matter. And because Bubble™ isn’t a thing yet, they haven’t had the chance to blossom into a horrible troll. But they will. And worse. But we won’t see any of that right now. Why? Cos they’re boring. And you’re boring, too.

You ask what’s wrong with me.

Hormones, I say.

Before you can have a reaction to that, I continue, saying, “You work hard, you know?”

You know you do, so you think that.

I read your mind, and clarify, “No, I don’t mean you you. I mean you, like one. A person works hard and tries to make something worthy.”

You’re starting to get it. You know, if you do. If you don’t, then I just leave.

If you do, then I don’t.

In either case, I finish my cigarette. Unless I wasn’t smoking to begin with.

Play procedures

• You can try to comfort or console me.
• You can challenge or argue with me.
• You can leave.
• You can just be there, quiet.