He barely moved

He barely moved

Head bent low over the glass,

Fingers wrapped around it

Protectively.

There was a bubble of foam on his lips

As he turned to look at me and said

“The other day, I read about a guy

Who was seeking treatment

For a porn addiction.”

“Right,” I replied

With half a mind to move away.

“Perhaps he should consider

The implications of his tacit support

Of people trafficking

Modern-day slavery and misogyny

Before he goes playing the victim here.

What do you think?”

I thought he had a point

And said so

“Too many people want to pathologise

Their failings

Treat them as something over which

They have no control

A matter of genetics

Predisposition.”

“Yes, I get that.”

“Perhaps it helps them feel better about themselves

Affords them an escape clause

A treatment option

A millennial malady

When it seems nothing

Can be labelled

Your responsibility

We are all victims of circumstance.”

He blew a bubble of foam

Into the air

And licked his lips.

I couldn’t disagree with him

Without getting into a debate

About psychological modelling

And addictive personality disorder

But wondered where

His outburst came from

What had been bubbling under

The surface to push it out

“I fell off the wagon today.”

He muttered.

“Not for the first time

It seems to hurt more with every

Fall.

But hey what else have I got

In my life but self-indulgence

When the truth is

I lost all the important stuff

Years ago.”

“Right.”

I murmured sympathetically.

“Oh.”

He said.

Lifting his head and giving me

A long hard look

His eyes were two different colours

But both of them were red

“Don’t feel sorry for me

Even though Dad

Was a raging alcoholic

Who beat my mother

I thought I would be the better man

When the truth is, I was no different.

Except I don’t blame him

And I don’t hate women.

Just myself.”

Ah, I thought,

He knows about modelling

Parental behaviour

And tried so hard

To turn it all around

He got here

Using a different door.