I remember we were in your backyard. And I’m sorry if this comes off nostalgic but that night keeps replaying in my mind. And I’m always wondering how everything changed that night. I gave you something I hadn’t given anyone in a long time. A piece of my mind. And not a piece of my body. And even though that’s what you wanted in the end, I’m glad you weren’t a complete douchebag and completely ignore what I was saying. Maybe because you understood what I was saying anyways. Maybe you were finally realizing that you weren’t alone.
You lit up your blunt as I fished my pack of cigarettes, along with a lighter, out of my purse. I saw you pause mid-drag and watch me as I lit up the Newport and inhaled.
“I didn’t know you smoked,” he almost apologize. I looked down as my face went red, suddenly embarrassed by my little habit.
“I usually don’t,” I replied, almost apologizing for my behaviour.
“Then why are you?” he asked, curious. I took another drag of my cigarette before I answered.
“When I first got my license,” I exhaled the smoke. “I suddenly realized I could go anywhere. I had a car so I could do that. Get in, start the engine and leave. I didn’t have to come back. I had no ties here.
The only problem was I had nowhere else to go and I’m terribly afraid of getting lost. So some nights I would just drive. And these,” I held up my Newport. “didn’t make me feel like I had to leave. Like if I just keep driving I’ll finally be happy somewhere.”
“Cigarettes help with coping with stress,” he said nodding. “So I guess that makes sense. They take away the stress of feeling like you have to leave.”
“Yeah, exactly,” I slowly let my head rest on his shoulder.
“Then why are you smoking one now?” he asked, suddenly alert. “You aren’t driving.”
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