As if she hasn’t already said all this before.
As if I don’t already have a playlist for what’s coming tomorrow.
“I don’t even want him anymore.”
The lie falls right out of her and sits in her lap, heartbroken.
I don’t say anything
until I’m sure I won’t sound cruel.
Then reach for her hand,
tuck her hair behind her ear,
and whisper,
“Then let’s get high and forget his face.”
We don’t go far.
One block south, past a 99-cent pizza spot glowing grease-yellow.
We duck into the alley.
Celie finds the fire escape like she was born under it.
She sits in a fetal position against the railing.
“This is like being sixteen again,” she whispers.
I'm crouched beside her.
“What—rolling up on a stranger’s fire escape?”
“Nah. This. Us. In the wind.”
The wind smells like cat piss and cannabis.
But I nod.
I lick the paper edge, seal the blunt,
then spark up,
fake inhale,
coughing a little for effect.
Celie sighs. “God, that hit.”
“Right? Smooth as gas station tequila.”
She takes it from me and closes her eyes,
blowing smoke up at the moon.
Meanwhile, I’m holding my breath so I don’t get high from secondhand.
