We shotgun Busch Lights at the park next to the out-of-business Blockbuster where we used to rent Nintendo games. One half of us sits on the edge of the plastic, neon-colored slide. The other half drags our feet through the wood chips under the swings, carving streaks in the dirt.

"What an asshole," we say, jumping on our empties like puddles, feeling the aluminum crumpling under our sneakers.

We went to your funeral that afternoon and invited you out tonight. Your parents scrunched their faces like we had ripped one when we walked in, dressed in sweat-stained T-shirts. We sat in the back pew, giggling and waiting for you to burst through the double doors behind us, sporting that crappy ghost costume you wore for Halloween this year and claiming how you got us, how we were all suckers. When you didn't, we placed our hands on your closed coffin and said, "The park, tonight at 8," knowing you were listening.

You operate on your own time. That's why we told you 8 when we meant 9. But if you're going to prank us, we're done waiting. With a stick, we write Pair-A-Dice in the sandbox and start walking.

At Pair-A-Dice, we scoot into the booth where you engraved our initials into the vinyl with that pocketknife you lifted from the Kum & Go down the street. We stare at the tobacco stain on the carpet, the one you said could predict the future. We let our eyes go slack like you taught us but don't see anything.

We slam our clenched fists onto the table. Imagining your face on each of our knuckles, we fling quarters at you until you cry blood. We try to remember why we are friends with you in the first place, try to forget all the times you pulled someone bigger off us, all the times you said, "Don't worry about it." On our way out, we tell the bartender to let you know we're heading to Joey's Pub, in case you care.

Even though you're not here, we leave space for you in the middle of us as we walk. Streetlights buzz above. The moon shines on us like a spotlight, like we're prisoners of something unexplained. We throw coasters we've stolen from Pair-A-Dice at street signs, telling ourselves you'll pop up around the corner if we hit our targets, but you never do.

We reach Joey's, the J in their signage toasted, the rest of the letters flickering, barely hanging on. Cigarette butts litter the parking lot like weeds. Everything looks like shit. How did we not notice this before? Feeling like someone has scooped out our guts, we decide to call it a night, not even checking to see if you're inside.

On our way home, we pass your parents' house. The lights are on. Through their living room window, we see your parents sitting on the couch, not moving. Then your dad gets up and flips off the light. Everything goes dark. Even the stars seem a bit dimmer. And we finally accept we'll never be us again.


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