From the Helicopter

I was happy with her there on the sofa and I told her so. "I see you looking at the crowds," she said. People were in the streets, screaming, laughing, a helicopter putting them on television. It was a celebration. "You can go."

"I don't want to go," I told her.

"Yes, you do."

"No," I said, "I don't." She glared at me. I don't know if she glared because she thought I was lying. If she glared because of the way I was telling her the truth. She didn't like hockey, that was fine. I love it more than I love most things and that is also fine. She didn't want to go out and I didn't make her. She agreed to watch it and I agreed to stay in. It was nice to share it with her, even if she looked at her phone a little more than I would have liked. And now this.

"You can go," she assured me, "I won't be mad."

I smiled at her. "I want to be here with you." And that was the end of it.

I looked at the view from the helicopter, the hordes and hordes, the dropping crowd surfers. If I joined them now I would need to pound at least two beers and a shot. I would need to do jumping jacks, pushups, something to get my blood flowing, my joints working. It would take me a while to get there, by which time some of the alcohol would be wearing off. Everyone would have been together all day, for hours, drinking and connecting. There was nothing for me there. I wanted it, badly, but it was not for me.