We interviewed the war. The war was depressed, smoking too much. And we were paying for the drinks. The war polished off three bottles of good red.
We were thinking “by the third bottle how can you even tell the difference?”
The war could tell the difference. The war had been doing this for years. And what did we know about anything anyway? We who weren’t the war. We who would never be the war.
The war was a mean drunk. The war said things about us that would have been better left unsaid. But wars, we discovered, do not apologise. Continue reading “The War”