saint of no solace.

"what a creep," he said with little disdain, but more of the less affected tone you take on when you're stating the obvious. such as, "oh, it's raining."

purging no consequence, merely pointing out the mundanely true.

and i nodded in agreement, passively, with little to no attachment to the said creep. i may have even shrugged to the non-debate.

and he put his arm around my waist, and i pulled my bourbon up to my lips.

he was the only one who knew what we were truly talking about as he led me down the stairs and away from my past.