Nothing to Say

"...but whatever," he kept on saying. Something, something, something bookended by a casual, "but whatever."

If he was going to say something, say it, I kept thinking. Say it and tell everyone to fuck themselves. I couldn't have been the only one noticing how this unkempt 20-something, this artist, kept talking without putting a period after anything, without making a statement. By saying that over and again, did he mean that if anyone disagreed with what he just said that their thoughts were equally valid? That would've been an honorable but gutless position. And yet that goes without saying, so again, meaningless.

It was dangerous to have these thoughts, containing them while sitting so close to friends and neighbors at dinner parties like those. With enough wine and imported beer, someone was liable to crack open and actually say something.