I want to tell you that Add drank before dinner. After class, he’d sit down in front of his desk with dead eyes and he’d unscrew the cap off a handle of rum, one of those cheap plastic caps that made terribly loud squeaks against the glass you could hear from the other room. I don’t know why he did it. Maybe school was suffocating him. Maybe I was. Maybe he did it because that’s how you deal with problems in college that don’t go away. He’d pour two, three shots into the same dinky green oversized plastic mug he used for brushing his teeth and catching his ejaculate (we never had enough socks and towels, and we did each other’s laundry from time to time anyway). Then he’d watch something on his MacBook — Colbert or some StarCraft tournaments. I didn’t know what to do. I’d ask him why, why he thought it’d be amusing to hold onto me and discreetly stagger out the cafeteria, and he’d just grin at me. It was the not talking that ate away at me. It was the glibness, the ironic irony. I took a vacation from my heart and I came back to find a rotten infestation of holes and tunnels. I want to tell you this to warn you to not bring stories of your drinking to me. I want to tell you this to teach you that my laughter is fake, that I will lie to you. I want to tell you this so you will talk about something else. I want to tell you this so you can forgive me. And recoil.