I’m excited for you.

I remember that night. You came home, later than I expected, but home. I got that much. For the time. You slapped a New York Strip’s worth of paper on the table like it was fucking platinum. It was.

“Record deal.” Perfunctorily. As if it was the grocery list.

I wipe my hands on whatever cloth is present. Ecstatic. Ebullient. “Lemme see?!?” I clutch at the papers. Your face a smatter of ecstatic brilliance as you grab a beer.

“Honey…” Your beer-grabbing ass didn’t hear me. “Baby…” Shuffling pages. “Darlin’…”

“Love?”

“Sweetness… I… this is a shit deal, baby. Surely you know this. I just… I… god… honey… you’re just throwin’ your shit away to these fuckers who are gonna rape and pillage your soul and you’re gonna maybe get enough money to buy that beer you’re drinkin’ right now.”

You hand me a beer and take the papers out of my hand, soft and gentle. “I know, baby, I know — but wait! It’s just a stepping stone! We gotta get our names out there, then we can do whatever we want! Then I can do whatever I want! This is it! This is the break! Be excited for me, baby. Baby?”

I’m excited for you. I was excited for you then. I was excited for you two hours later when we twisted the sheets up into a knot and said fuck it and threw ‘em on the floor and ran another line so we could go another four hours in numb monotonous ecstasy (because even ecstasy is monotonous after awhile).

And I was excited for you a year later, when I saw your face on the cover of  Rolling Stone. It had been a year since I’d seen you. You looked good.

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