it used to be sly kisses in between changing your guitars and bass for the encore backstage. It used to be rough, calloused hands rubbing at your smooth, sweet baby fat under your old navy polo shirts. In the backs of busses reeking of testosterone and Andy mumbling something about cradle robbing.

Now it was this. Long, drawn out small talk with someone you used to consider the only person conversation didn't go bland with. The whole time you were at this stupid party for the guy you both met through making music. Your friends dragged you to this room together to play cards against humanity. Pete was playing too.

Pete was glazed over. It felt like he had a wall of glass thickly coated around his whole body. Instead of uppers, it was anything Pete could take to subdue him. I mean, black cards failed, why not pop a bar or two. You hated it. You hated it more than anything. And when most people shoveled out from the garage into the main part of the house, besides a few people coming out to get beers from the fridge, you were alone.

Pete sat there for a second. He looked you up and down. Blonde hair, contacts, skinny jeans you would have never worn back then, the baby fat dissolved and cheekbones trading your love handles.

"You look different."

And that made you feel rage. 2 or 3 years, and all he had to say was that you looked different?