being seventeen.We found a park, and chose a path that was lined with trees. Destination: benches around a fountain with a statue of a boy doing something that looked oh so wrong to a dolphin. Sat down, three to a bench, and I wrapped my arms tighter around a too-thin jacket. My toes curled small in my converses, and cracked open the bottle under the light of a camera phone.
We passed the bottle along, sharing the wine and last week's flu, talking of politics and how shit this stuff was. The cheap stuff stained my friend's cracked lips a guilty purple, so I tried not to let my own touch the screw-thread at the mouth of the bottle. It stung as I swallowed. I'm by no means a virgin to drinking but I just don't see what the big fuss is about.
My friend fumbled with the lighter, fingers too numb to spin the wheel. She sighed after the first pull, as if she really needed the fix when I know better.
I know that they are not as drunk as they acted, and when they are, their motions are far too uncoordinated that shows their previous acting to be an obvious fraud. They never remember afterwards, and I will never tell them because that would be cruel even for me.
She handed me the cancer stick and I held it inexpertly like a joint, inhaled through the mouth and exhaled through the nose. I was told that the brown filter is the end you put at your mouth, to which I was too polite to point out that the other end is fucking lit anyway. They gushed about how the alcohol coursing through our veins too fast and the skinny burning stick at my lips are keeping them warm, but I don't see how that works either.
I had a few more puffs, but last week's sore-throat still lurked down my trachea and it complained, and I remembered how she wouldn’t approve if she smelled or tasted it on me, so I gave it back and let them have at it.
Later, when we’re on a train speeding back south, I let myself drift from the chemistry notes on my lap. The disco music from the man with the dreadlocks sitting across from me was too loud; the woman across from me looked at me too frequently; the strangers’ conversation behind me too dull. My friend called tonight corruption; I call it rite of passage. I don’t feel the temptation of the alcohol nor the nicotine and didn’t experience the gleeful euphoria they had. I don’t want a habit too expensive for me to afford and too painful to kick – this might make me dull but at least my wallet is fuller being dull. I turned up my music to match disco guy’s – I had a test on Wednesday to study for.
Tired
-Evan
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Witness the power of nature... [link]
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