Week 3 Entry for brigits_flame. Prompt: "Truth."
So this is technically part of a short story... and I wrestled with the idea of explaining the characters, the situation, etc, etc... and found it not only too painstaking, but it just sounded bad. So, I apologize if this is confusing, and you can make of it what you will. I hope you like this piece, anyway, and good luck, everyone!
Abby and I are sitting on the top of the picnic table, as rebellious as we dare, staring out at the blue-black horizon. On one end, my laptop masquerades as a jukebox, playing her mix CD of The Dandy Warhols and Nirvana. On the other, she has a pack of clove cigarettes, balancing precariously.
My speakers are miserable-“Sleep” emerges with a melody like tin, like the crinkling of Christmas wrapping. There is no bass.
She’s blowing smoke next to me, attempting rings. All I see are clouds in the shape of lungs, more than I thought hers could hold. I can’t stand the sickly sweet perfume of her cloves, but I am curious and she knows it.
“Try it,” she tells me. “Just once.”
“But I’ll cough and look stupid.”
“Everyone does, the first time. Just try it.”
She’s been asking this for the last two weeks, or however long her new addiction has been thriving. Only now do I bother to give in.
“Fine.”
Sleek, black, warm. There’s a sugar cube on the end, stained with tobacco and her saliva. She hands it to me. “Just once, and I’ll leave you alone.”
I know I won’t like it, but for some reason I want the reassurance. I want to know she and I are two entirely different species, and that I am not just feigning my aversion to everything she claims to love.
I need to know we were different.
I raise the cigarette to my lips, clumsy, my fingers confused and tangled.
“Breathe in.”
I do. Tentatively.
…Nothing.
“That was not a breath,” she says, rolling her eyes. “Do it again. Like you would normally.”
I inhale, and suddenly the sick/sweet smell is inside me, uncomfortably warm, tendrils of smoke clawing at my throat and lungs. I cough, only slightly, and more for effect than out of honest feeling, and hand it back to her.
Blue eyes, vibrant, laughing. Waiting for my assessment.
“Interesting, I guess?” I give another cough, for good measure. “Not my thing, but interesting.”
“Yeah.” She puts it back to her lips. “I like it.”
Of course she does. She is already fond of smoking other things, things I am not the least bit curious about and never intend to experiment with.
“Mm.”
I’m preoccupied with my inhale, exhale, the heat and smoky perfume still trapped in my lungs. I can feel the gray in my saliva, slick and coating my teeth. Every breath afterwards, for hours, is heat.
I remember the nights I tried to sleep with my face close to the mattress, breathing in my own warm air. It was impossible, uncomfortable. I always had to turn over, tuck my hands under the pillow to give my head a bit more leverage and clearance, and breathe. I needed the cool air, crisp and clear, filling my lungs to bursting and then seeping slowly out my lips, lukewarm.
The song changes somewhere down the line, the notes now longer and less precise.
Abby takes a long breath and exhales an impressive plume of smoke. “Do you ever wonder what Elaine would say?” she wonders aloud, staring at the line of trees in the distance.
“About what?” I ask, but I already know.
“About us. About me.”
And about me. I nod. “…Yeah.”
All the time, I want to tell her.
All the time.
Abby and I are sitting on the top of the picnic table, as rebellious as we dare, staring out at the blue-black horizon. On one end, my laptop masquerades as a jukebox, playing her mix CD of The Dandy Warhols and Nirvana. On the other, she has a pack of clove cigarettes, balancing precariously.
My speakers are miserable-“Sleep” emerges with a melody like tin, like the crinkling of Christmas wrapping. There is no bass.
She’s blowing smoke next to me, attempting rings. All I see are clouds in the shape of lungs, more than I thought hers could hold. I can’t stand the sickly sweet perfume of her cloves, but I am curious and she knows it.
“Try it,” she tells me. “Just once.”
“But I’ll cough and look stupid.”
“Everyone does, the first time. Just try it.”
She’s been asking this for the last two weeks, or however long her new addiction has been thriving. Only now do I bother to give in.
“Fine.”
Sleek, black, warm. There’s a sugar cube on the end, stained with tobacco and her saliva. She hands it to me. “Just once, and I’ll leave you alone.”
I know I won’t like it, but for some reason I want the reassurance. I want to know she and I are two entirely different species, and that I am not just feigning my aversion to everything she claims to love.
I need to know we were different.
I raise the cigarette to my lips, clumsy, my fingers confused and tangled.
“Breathe in.”
I do. Tentatively.
…Nothing.
“That was not a breath,” she says, rolling her eyes. “Do it again. Like you would normally.”
I inhale, and suddenly the sick/sweet smell is inside me, uncomfortably warm, tendrils of smoke clawing at my throat and lungs. I cough, only slightly, and more for effect than out of honest feeling, and hand it back to her.
Blue eyes, vibrant, laughing. Waiting for my assessment.
“Interesting, I guess?” I give another cough, for good measure. “Not my thing, but interesting.”
“Yeah.” She puts it back to her lips. “I like it.”
Of course she does. She is already fond of smoking other things, things I am not the least bit curious about and never intend to experiment with.
“Mm.”
I’m preoccupied with my inhale, exhale, the heat and smoky perfume still trapped in my lungs. I can feel the gray in my saliva, slick and coating my teeth. Every breath afterwards, for hours, is heat.
I remember the nights I tried to sleep with my face close to the mattress, breathing in my own warm air. It was impossible, uncomfortable. I always had to turn over, tuck my hands under the pillow to give my head a bit more leverage and clearance, and breathe. I needed the cool air, crisp and clear, filling my lungs to bursting and then seeping slowly out my lips, lukewarm.
The song changes somewhere down the line, the notes now longer and less precise.
Abby takes a long breath and exhales an impressive plume of smoke. “Do you ever wonder what Elaine would say?” she wonders aloud, staring at the line of trees in the distance.
“About what?” I ask, but I already know.
“About us. About me.”
And about me. I nod. “…Yeah.”
All the time, I want to tell her.
All the time.