Smiths turns up

On a chilly morning in late August, Smiths showed up at my door.

'Smiths--hi,' said I.

'Hi, Alfie,' he said. 'Nice hair.'

'Yes, Smiths, I know it's sticking out in all directions,' said I. 'Of course, it always is at six o'clock in the morning.'

Smiths put on an apologetic puppy-dog face. Then, a different thought darkened his visage, and he said, 'Sharon and I broke up.'

I was silent for a moment.

'Well, Alfie?'

'Well, what?' I snapped. 'What do you want me to say?'

Smiths paused, furrowed his brow, unfurrowed it. 'That though I've been a bad friend, you forgive me. That you, like me, are a fallible human being, and so you understand.'

A pause.

'Well, I'm sorry,' I said. 'I can't forgive you.'

I waited for Smiths to either vociferate or walk away. Instead, he stayed, with a fixed expression. 'Would it change anything,' he said, 'if I told you why we broke up?'