Fucking Stars

It was hotter than fuck inside so I moved out to the balcony. Which wasn’t much fucking better but at least a breeze blew by ever now and fucking then.

The wife said she was going out to her girlfriend’s, even though I just bought fucking groceries for dinner, saying she couldn’t be around me any fucking more, I was getting on her fucking nerves.

Which suited me just fucking fine. Every now and then a man needs to be  alone, you know? Let the day and week and fucking month sink in.

I had the grill going, just heating up, and I’m sitting there, looking out over the yards and rooftops. Enjoying a beer in absolute fucking silence, right. No stars, because you can’t see fucking stars in the city.

I took my nephew out camping last summer, and that little shit looks up at night and asks me what’s that in the sky and I say it’s the stars, and he says, oh, I though they only had those in books. I was fucking incredulous. I reminded myself to give my sister a slap for letting her kid think that.

Imagine.

Fucking stars only exist in fairy tales.

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