Hustler
There once was a boy, let's call him the hustler - because he once was called this, even though he never participated in such activity. I knew him for over 20 years, but I don't think I know him any more. Can't say if he changed when the virus came, if I realized who he really was by then, or if both things are true. I liked, but never loved him - and yet, we shared so many bacchatian hours. He was wild in his youth - dangerously crazy on pot. He was mellow in cold nights, when we listened - close to each other - on doors. Jolly when watching cheesy action movies - he never loved the remote, weird movies that I loved - but this was okay, either. I was angry with him when he shattered a moth who sat on me - and I do wonder if he really gassed a marten, and how I could just have overheard it when he told me. His taste for music was often horrendous, and he loved to listen to this outmoded, square stuff over and over, driving others to despair sometimes. I think of him whenever I see a James Bond movie. Sometimes I miss him; but whenever I encounter him again, I feel that our times are gone.