It isn’t a game. No one could be that clever. I make it seem so easy. The alternative would be telling.

Your parting gift is a clear an apology. I healed you of your limp and today you’ve crippled me, so I might need it. You like to look at it now and again. The old cane. Remind yourself what we’ve done together. You don’t expect to see it again after today. Your self-hatred is palpable, so I joke. Never did have much sense of comedic timing, just discomfort with sentiment. Easier to make it all seem like a glamorous, clever deception. Twelve steps ahead as usual. But it’s a misstep, like so many others before it. I’ve been told reliably that for a genius, I’m rather often an idiot. My glib bravado fuels that anger again. You don’t trust either of us now, yourself or me.

How can I blame you when I feel the same way?