The Wild Turkey

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“Please call me or Hugh when you get home.” She says as we say goodnight to the evening we spent singing poorly tuned songs and swing dancing among vomiteers. “I don’t need a chaser.” She says after she shows me how much more durable her liver was than mine, unaware of how much I know livers I’m general. Her insides splashed over our friend’s backseat as she snipes at imaginary poachers on the highway back to our unmentionable little town, she stays awake to make sure everyone got home safe as I made sure she, herself, was able to get home safe.

Her kindness rivaled even the blinding white light of God when you face death, a light I’ve started yearning for since the great flood of the leaves. I didn’t know what to make of the situation except that we didn’t need each other in our lives, and that in itself, made me feel even more needed than necessary.

She asked me to stop being so kind as I hid the flowers in a can within her purse, and I realized at that moment that it was the first time I was acknowledged for my kindness that I did not deliberately try to convey. It was natural, and I’d have done it regardless of her insides being sprayed in the strange strangers car. I briefly became a human being that worried about someone other than myself, as opposed to being a creature that worried about nothing. I felt needed, even just for my jokes.

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