Saturday, May 30, 2015

Short Story Time: Smoke

She trailed him out of the house and down the few steps to the back door of the garage. It was a bit chilly now that the sun had gone down and she pulled her hoodie a little tighter around her. Was this really a good idea? Maybe she should have simply insisted on waiting inside the house, where it was safe and warm, but he’d asked her to come with so nicely. And so she had followed him out to the garage and waited patiently while he prepared a smoking apparatus. Weed had always had a foul smell to her and while she didn’t mind people using it, she’d rather not be around when it happened.

And yet, here she was.

But he’d been understanding, in his own way, of her discomfort. He’d changed shirts just for smoking and slipped a jacket on, all things that would be removed again once he was finished. And he sat a fair distance away from her, on the stairs. She had crouched down on the concrete walkway, an attempt to keep warm. Even her hood had been pulled up, obscuring her face.

The radio was on in the garage, spilling out the deadpan warbling of an artist he’d told her about earlier. She smiled, he was always so keen on telling her about artists he’d discovered that he believed she might like. He’d yet to really hit the mark, but she didn’t mind that. Music was his thing and he did his best to share that passion with her.

He did a lot for her, now that she thought about it. Just two nights ago, he’d rescued her in the midst of a panic attack and carted her away from her life. A reprieve from the real world, so she could get her head screwed back on. He didn’t need to go out of his way at midnight just for her, drive all that way just to save her. But he had. And she was grateful.

So even if he was sitting outside, on the back stoop, exhaling a cloud of pot smoke and gazing at her in the most peculiar way, she couldn’t even find it in her to be a little bit irritated. She loved him, after all. And as long as he was considerate of her feelings about stuff, he could do whatever the hell he wanted.

So after getting mildly high, they returned to the house. True to his word, he ditched the now befouled clothing and slipped back into his original t-shirt. And when she buried her nose against his shoulder, all she could smell was him.

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