Best of the Worst

In a secluded back room
we sit drinking.
She tells tales
of embarrassing exploits
back in the day.
I’m excited to hear
of her dangerous years
but also jealous
that I seem to have missed them
and worried
that I’d be unable to handle her
at her worst
or best
depending on how you define.

She speaks of shaving frats
and stealing buses
and sneaking onto monuments
and I wonder
what she would think
of my exploits of entering the library
after hours
if I even dared to admit them.

And maybe it doesn’t matter.
Maybe the past is where it belongs
and she’s here in this bar
because that’s where she wants to be
with the people and drinks she chooses
but then she stumbles to order another round
and you realize she’s a few ahead of you
and you worry she might have to carry you home
and maybe that doesn’t matter either.

But it does.
In the morning,
it all does.

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