If he could take a pencil and write out all those wrongs, 
I'm still not sure that he would do it. If he could press 
record and wipe out all those songs, he'd probably only 
make it halfway through it before he got bored and went 
to have a rest, and doesn't that say so much about John? 
I think he believes that his friends have been blessed by 
the mere gift of getting to sing along. Otherwise how 
would you account for the way he wastes her time, marking 
backwards birthdays on awkward calendars still to be 
forgotten? Tuesday to Tuesday she's found waiting with 
her juice for him to get his things together in a 
messenger bag that's laid out, the velcro loose, near 
meticulous movements stretched forever. It's no anomaly, 
for this sequence soon repeats and she'll be stuck behind 
the screen door with a drafty wind on her neck and a 
series of defeats, wondering, 'what is it, what is it, 
what is it, what is it all for?' It's much akin to some 
backyard-growing, long-forgotten vine  they're waiting 
for his ripe return to life not knowing he's already 
rotten.