Pretty. Much. Everything. We were in the gardens behind Galloway, bickering like a married couple even though we’d only known each other for a week. It began with the stars. Her: You’ve never seen the Big Dipper? Me: I don’t really get the name. Her: The name? Me: What the hell. Is a dipper. Do you mean spoon? The big spoon in the sky? Her: Why are you so mad? Me: Because—waste of a night, Alice. And now you want to talk about imaginary silverware in the sky. Her: You need people, Noah. You need hope and friends and something to do other than drink and whatever else I saw you doing the other night, and I’m sorry if spending an evening with a friend and a bunch of people who want to make the most of the time that they have was so dreadful— Me: You don’t actually believe that shit? (I couldn’t resist.) Her: And what if I did believe that, as you say, shit? Would it be so terribly bad, Noah? To have some hope? And some friends? And something to do other than drink? It’s like Director Bajwa said on convocation day—you wouldn’t know, seeing as you weren’t there— Me: Ha.
