I'm no fan of apologies, but I'd be a liar if I said I wasn't guilty for what happened a month ago. I've had more than enough chances to apologize. Opportune moments were a dime a dozen. It's just––it'd be too awkward if I came out and said it. Plus, I couldn’t stand the humility of those two silly little words––they made my tongue curl over itself.

I hated to leave Wino there, alone in his empty room. The lamp was always on because of his blackout curtains, and his phone practically lived atop its charging pad next to it. He stepped out only for work, the bathroom, and the kitchen. Then he retracted like a turtle into his shell. The door closed and another situation ripe for an apology rotted.

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It's like a slot machine, my coins voluntarily leaping inside one after another, jingling into a pile, but the lever never moves. The part that dug into me was: I didn’t know how many coins remained. I’d seen his phone. Cheryl barely responded to his texts anymore, and she hadn’t been here for the past two weeks. That must’ve bummed him out. She really made him happy, didn’t she? I just didn’t know how he’d react once he heard it from me, but what kind of a friend was I without saying it? Maybe it's the magician in me, too great to stoop down and apologize. But if it made him feel any better––Wino, I'm sorry.