Noise Pt. 2

Day Nine of Thirty Days of Writing

Amanda DeNatale
Jul 20, 2017 · 2 min read

You inhale the cigarette, and feel the rush of nicotine go straight to your head. Good thing you’re sitting down. You don’t really smoke cigarettes anymore, except when you’re drunk.

“So you’re back in Chicago?” John asks you. His arm hangs over the back of the bench.

“Yea we moved back, when I started high school.”

He stares at you, and you feel the need to take a deep breath.

“I never thought we would see each other again,” you say, shaking your head in disbelief.

“Or recognize each other?” He adds.

You nod in agreement. His voice has dropped three octaves, but all you can think about in this moment is the two of you making pillow forts on in that dodgy apartment complex on Hazel Street.

You catch each other up on what’s been going on. His mom is married now to some guy named Juan, who John says is a good guy-like a dad to him, he says. You try to smile when he asks about your Mom, and tell him that she’s good, but the words get caught in the back of your throat, and he knows you’re lying.

“She’s sick,” you smile feebly. “But her husband, Ron is taking care of her.” Ron was good for your Mom, and you knew that, even though the two of you didn’t always see eye to eye. He came along to late for you to consider him your father. That’s not how that stuff worked.

John reaches over and strokes your arm — you stiffen. You’re not used to this kind of intimacy at the club. You change the subject and tell him you’re working as a paralegal at a law firm downtown that he hasn’t heard of. He tells you that he’s working in finance.

You tell him that you remember when the two of you wanted to be astronauts, and how you used to name the stars together. He remembers. He shows you a picture of his golden retriever, Molly, and you feel the bridge of your nose start to sting. You’re not the kind of girl who cries when she’s drunk, but something about looking into those milky brown eyes makes you feel vulnerable, like you just want him to hold you and let you cry.

But you’re at the club. You glance behind you and see your friends staring at you from the door, checking to make sure you’re okay. Cynthia winks at you. Your phone buzzes. You check a text from Cynthia. They’re glad you’re having a good time.

You feel like you should go back inside, but John lights another cigarette, and your body won’t move. He looks you in the eyes, and whispers, “Melanie”.

“What?” You look at him, uncertain.

“Do you want to name the stars?”


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Amanda DeNatale

Written by

Writer/Bartender/Junior Editor for F(r)iction/ MFA grad/ Hula hooper/Daydreamer/Adventurer

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