I told her she was Shakespearean for all the wrong reasons. All she did was laugh. She told me to focus my attention on something else; to let the universe take a moment for itself. I told her we were Shakespearean for all the wrong reasons, as the day moved itself over us and the night arrived on schedule.
We sat in the subtle grace of nothing better to do, arguing over who was more fucked up, until it was time to leave. On the way back home, warm from the drunk, her ghost self told me I was wrong, and that walking in slow circles will sate the void. I told her ghost self that the 6 pack at home will do the same thing.
I told myself that I can’t love her; that’s she’s Shakespearean for all the wrong reasons. I told myself that it’s just idle chatter to fill the void between monologues and the self flagellation of being alone, of going back over all the lines to find some flaw, some miscued action or missing of mark.
She told her ghost me, on the long walk home, that I really need to stop talking through the second act, and let the action speak for itself. She demands an answer from the crowd, stopping feet in petulant rhythm, beckoning response from the void. I, however, am content to let it all spiral in, let the whole house collapse in on itself, leave no one left to demand an encore. I guess her ghost self is correct; I am Shakespearean for all the wrong reasons I suppose, standing center stage, shouting soliloquy into the void, content to have voice enough to scream.