I was still drunk when I woke up. I guess Henri was right. But he was the one pouring the whisky.
In Henri’s defense, he says it’s impossible to tell when I’m drunk, so it’s often too late by the time he realizes. I don’t get sloppy; I just get melancholy, or “dark” as he says. “You need to go home now,” he said last night. “You’re getting dark.” He looked worried. Thing is, he looked worried for himself. It's strange, but sometimes I feel Henri is a little afraid of me. I don’t know why he should be. Doesn’t he know how much I love him, my best friend since 25 years? I would never hurt him. No matter how “dark” I get.
I’m not sure why people fear me, but I see it from time to time in their eyes. I don’t know what it is in me that inspires fear—I’m a quiet guy, I don’t rant or wave my fists around. I don’t strut through the streets like I own them. Still, I do sense their fear. I can smell it like a dog. Sometimes it’s a good thing; it gets me respect from the scum I have to deal with every day in my job. It was especially useful when I was in vice. And of course, when I lived on the street. Fear keeps people at a distance.
But what about Henri? My colleagues? My lovers? Jean-Paul? Does it keep them at a distance? Maybe that's why JP keeps running off. Why I sleep alone. Still, I can't control the darkness inside. I suppose that’s why I drink too much.
