Home.

Whenever I go home I usually get talked into going out. Not that I mind going out. Just in my hometown I do. For lots of reasons. But since there are two ladies with whom I attach the word best, I make an exception. You would think by now that they would have stopped asking since they know how I feel, but they don’t stop, and so I oblige. I’m out with my girls, trying to enjoy the festivities for the most part or at least appear as though I am. We’re in this small club that has had about three different names, each time as an effort to “classy” it up, when time seems to revert back to the days of my early twenties. Against the wall is an ex of an ex. The one he couldn’t get over enough to allow us to be. The one who left him, then tried to get back with him while he was trying to get back with me. Irony in full swing. Across the room is the other’s ex-boyfriend’s best friend, whom I’ve known since the Spring Break days. And near the bar, his cousin, whom I adore, but had to give up with the break-up. The “these friends come with me, those with you” deal. They lived together while we dated and still is one of my favorite people. We chat it up. Then there is the tap on my shoulder of a man who always used to vie for my attention. Still a nice guy. Still asking to take me out. All of them, stuffed in this small, too-brightly lit club that if I blinked, was life six years ago, familiar faces and slightly forgotten memories. A reminder of a young loves, young losses, a reminder of why I left, and why I stay gone.