I'm Sorry, Rachel

You’re not dead. At least, I hope. When you stood in front of the Surfside after close and peed your pants, my boyfriend and I talked about it for years. How the blue of your jeans got darker and darker, and you smiled this little helpless smile like you were embarrassed but not embarrassed enough. The guy you were with is the one who is dead. Blown to bits in some sandy foreign conflict zone. Iraq? Somewhere in Northern Africa? Our editor’s best friend since childhood, the tall, dark, and handsome war reporter pulled you away from us to take you home and clean you up. If you ever got clean. If you ever figured out how to enjoy a couple Old Styles without becoming a stumbling, slurring mess. Or gave it up altogether. We should have saved you ourselves instead of watching you get wetter and wetter. We should have known there is no way to observe a disaster without playing a role. The reporter knew. There is only a short window to be the people we should be.