milk was always alone but he wasn’t exactly lonely. there was a peaceful solitude to it- to not be bothered by other people. sometimes he’d wonder what things would be like otherwise though, abortion to have a wife or child.
the night before, at a bar, he said hi to a guy he knew. the guy thought he was someone else, a man in afghanistan. milk just acted like he was. if the person couldn’t be bothered to realize it was him, why should he tell him otherwise. the guy had painted him before; it wasn’t like he was some stranger.
at a club, he saw a gorgeous girl he had dated once. he didn’t talk to her, she might not have even seen him. she meant something once, three months ago, but then she became nothing.