Role Models -

“That I used to be young,” he said. “And that I used to believe in things. Now I’m old, and I don’t believe in anything. Not in God, not in love, not in art, not in myself. I don’t even believe in the truth. I just tell stories.”

The poet paused, and took a sip of his wine. He looked around the room, and his eyes met mine. I smiled, and he smiled back, a small, tired smile. Then he went on. Role Models

He poured himself another glass of wine, and then he walked away, leaving me standing by the bar. I watched him go, and I thought about what he had said. I thought about innocence, and about the loss of it, and about the way we spend our lives trying to get it back. I thought about the famous actress, dead of cancer, and about the poet, old and alone, and about Gertrude Stein, sitting in her armchair in Paris, talking about the war. I thought about Hemingway and Fitzgerald, and about the clean white lines and the beautiful sad parties. And then I thought about myself. “That I used to be young,” he said

He looked at me, and his eyes were cold. “It wasn’t a story,” he said. “It was the truth.” Not in God, not in love, not in art, not in myself

“What’s that?”

I closed my eyes, and I waited for morning. End of text.

I left the party early. I drove home through the dark streets, past the houses with their lighted windows, past the trees with their bare branches, past the stars with their cold, distant light. I parked the car in the driveway, and I sat there for a long time, looking at my house. The lights were off. My wife and children were asleep. The dog was asleep. The cat was asleep. Everything was quiet. Everything was still. And I thought, This is my life. This is the only life I will ever have. And I felt nothing. Not sadness, not joy, not gratitude, not regret. Just nothing. A great, empty, peaceful nothing.