On a train from Jackson to Damen, in search of tacos, with two of my friends, young women of indeterminate age, they discover that I am older than both of them. They are surprised.
“Yes,” I say, “the late twenties.”
“What’s it like?” says one of them, and I realize she’s serious.
Luckily, I had just thought of the answer to this question a few days ago, while pondering a recent screw-up and its aftermath.
“Well, the thing is, you will keep on making the same mistakes,” I say, “but you make them much faster. It takes six weeks, as opposed to several years, to recognize what you’re doing and stop.”
“Yeah?” says the other.
“But you can’t consume as much alcohol or stay up as late as you used to,” I say, “so get your drinking in now.”
(This is the first time I have written a dialogue excerpt in fiction as opposed to play format.)