Delighted

“We could even say, that’s the real miracle of Christ rising on the third day.”

“Madman,” he said, and topped off their dwindling drinks with the rest of the Baileys. Then he went straight to sipping, smacking his lips twice. “You better not talk too much about this. If the wrong person hears…”

“Better dead than dread.” I tasted my coffee with Irish cream—or was it now Irish cream with coffee?—and poured in the rest of the cold bean juice in the pot. “This is your biggest problem, man. You care too much what people think.”

“People don’t only think. They talk.”

“Talk, walk, stalk, mock. I’ve seen it all.”

He reacted not, opting instead to stare at the bottom of his ceramic mug, maybe at a scratch or a chip. I took the silence as an opportunity to stand and put on a new stick of incense. Frankincense, the biblical gift with a name made Promethean by the ages. As I fiddled with the lighter, trying to conjure up a flame from the pathetic sparks, my friend said: “You know the smoke from that stuff lowers your intelligence?”

“I’m already an idiot anyway,” I said, finally getting a flame to burn the end of the stick in the purple-painted wooden holder, releasing a burst of earthy spice.

“I’m serious, man. That stuff is terrible for your health.” He got up, and took his drink to near the open back door in the kitchen. “Life isn’t all fun and games. These things catch up to you one day.”