The last time we met was in a queue at the twenty-four-hour petrol station on St Stephen’s Day.
I was gasping for a cigarette, and you were high and had the munchies.
You hadn’t changed a bit — but not in a good way.
In between the giggles and the scatology you were still raking over old ground:
The dalliance you had with that older woman when you were seventeen and how all our teachers were pricks.
You had not grown up since then.
In fact I would say you were diminished;
Horizons set low, outlook shuttered by drugs and disappointment.
I felt sad for you who was a rebel in school and never tired of telling us that you were getting out of town as soon as the exams were over.
You never got out and the last I heard was that you were on the line of a factory that made ventilation units.