that fucking guy

So there's this kid I know whose name in my cell phone is just "that fucking guy." I've known him for years, always stop in to see him whenever I'm passing through Chicago, and I don't actually remember what his real name is. I guess "kid" isn't a very accurate word anymore, either, but since I don't know his name that's what I call him to his face. We've both put a few miles on our shoes since we first met, young, dumb, and restless.

I've started doing this thing where, every time I see him, I imagine we're living in a story I'm writing. It's different every time. Sometimes he gets to be the author insert character, and sometimes I play that role myself. I don't know if he knows--probably not. That's why I have him in my phone as "that fucking guy," really. Together, him unknowing and me unwilling, we act out my fictions. I've tried not to, really. But I just slip into some new character, and then it's not me making the decisions anymore, but whatever skin I've slipped into.

So, the last time I saw him, this winter, I realized he doesn't know my name, either. It's been years. And now I wonder if it's the same with him, if every time we meet it's not just this elaborate dance of pretending to be someone else, each of so deep in the lie we don't dare to stop and question this false reality we've created.