I went and watched the dark knight on my own, and I left, euphoric in the near-midnight rain, strangely remembering how it was that I lived with a boy with so few redeeming qualities for so long; it was simple. We shared the love for stories.
Well, certain stories, at least.
I lit my cigarette and felt myself turning and twisting underneath the skin; felt the marks on my hands where I bit them in anticipation, my sore lip where I chewed on it. I remembered how he would grin as inanely as I would, squeeze me out of sheer joy over whatever film we had watched, or book we had read (taking turns; one of us immediately picking up the book as soon as the other left the room).
I thought about that feeling, the freedom to be overwhelmed by heroes and big weapons and grand tales, and to share it, without hesitation, and I knew that I don't have that anymore, and that I miss it - but as a separate phenomenon. It's nothing to do with him.
But everything to do with Batman, perhaps.