＃３０

She didn’t love him. Not really. She hated the way the air burned between them, hated his cynicism, his hate. His friends despised her because they knew that she knew they didn’t like him, either. All users, all groupies… insects caught in his honeyed, reckless charisma that would instinctively flee if they could only escape. A bombmaker’s worth becomes his craft and cause alone, and we all saw in Johnny a molotov — his greatest trick, his schtick, to listen to all you had to say and in turn convince you that you could wield him. Anarchists, syndicatists, hedomodernists all… we felt he was ours, our bastard, and we saw in him all we wished we could become.

But no, she didn’t love him. She just missed him. That’s all.