I am sitting awake tonight with a glass of sake, and I am reflecting on the nature of friendships. I consider it so long, it becomes a nonsense word, a random gathering of vowels and consonants with no true meaning or definition. And it occurs to me that "friend" is just that: a mutable term, a broad umbrella for the relationships one makes that extend beyond mere affiliation, but pause before the intimacies of "lover" can take hold. I can share with you, friend, the mundane details of my day and the dreams that lie just beyond my reach. Perhaps I will show you my skeletons and unfold for you the labyrinth of past transgressions, the mortifying roadwork of the girl I "used to be". You can participate in my diary of today and our memories will punch in the same hours, building a parable we'll recount to friends we have not yet met and cannot predict (though, inevitably, we'll tell it differently).

But can I scratch your neck, on that sensitive spot just beneath the hairline, and will you yield to my touch without reserve? Can I nestle, reposed, in the temperate curves of your prostrate body as you sleep, and can the succor of your arm across my shoulders truly constitute friendship?

I pour another glass, and I think to myself, "one of us is always on the losing end." The seesaw will always lilt slightly towards one side; even as it strives to gain equilibrium, teetering ponderously, one flank always remains the heavier. The myth of equality is simply that: a myth.

But the question remains: who is the winner, and who the loser?