Chthonic

Sarah

The ebb and flow of friendship persists. Some need to drift out to the open sea to find new shores no matter how we tried to hold them. Others wash back onto us under some unanticipated lunar pull.

As I introduce Emily to my newest internet fixation, The Show with Zefrank, our home phone rings. We look baffled, as no one with that number calls past nine. Emily picks it up and announces the caller ID's dictate: Sarah.

I answer, greeting her with her name in lieu of a hello. She is quiet for the first few minutes until I point this out and she can no longer forestall the inevitable. She announces that she still has issues with me over my writing here. She says and means that she doesn't want to put me on the defensive, but I acknowledge this is where I find myself. I can't do much defending beyond maintaining that I wrote the best truth I knew. I don't record conversations and all it takes is Sarah as character witness to expunge that her friend Kristin said any of the things to me that I now vaguely remember. They are much closer than I am with Sarah presently and I am in no position to argue and keep Sarah as a friend. All of this was years ago and I can't stand on my faded memories of a couple of nights. It would just be stubborn pride talking, asserting that I must be right. I could be a very self-righteous and lonely man if I wanted to regard my text as the inerrant word of God, but know it is just what I thought and witnessed or thought I witnessed.

My writing has always been a problem between Sarah and me. I have written about her things I had no right to divulge beyond that I felt I needed to write. I accept full culpability for that.

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