Errant Drivel

I took one long hit from the southpaw, and then passed it along to my left before dissolving into a mildly painful coughing fit, which caused me to laugh hysterically. The room was dark, save for the bright blue christmas lights lining the ceiling which, to everyone's awe, created a sort of supernatural, ethereal atmosphere. The speakers boomed, drowning us in the blasphemous rhymes and rhythms of artists ranging from future to frnkiero and the patience. 

"Is that a tattoo on your arm," I ask, knowing it is, in fact, a tattoo. I'd intended to ask what it said, but I was already forgetting both the words I spoke, and the words I'd planned to speak.

"What? Yeah. What?" Everyone laughs. No one knows why.

That was a regular occurrence in my life for many years. It began in my gap year, after high school. It followed me through my handful of semsters in College, where I studied animation, story design, acting, and a slew of other fine arts. It followed me through adulthood, when I couldn't find work and resigned myself to lingering at the bottom rungs of the Food and Bev business forever. It followed me right up until now.

My friend is dying. I glance at her tattoo again, chuckle a little. "Still there, eh? Guess it is a tattoo." A quip I've made for decades now.

"What? Yeah. What?" Not a quip. Her dementia is acting up again. She stares at me, her eyes void of recognition. Tears well up in my eyes, and some impossible pain grips my throat. We both laugh. Neither of us knows why.