Closer (Part II)
“Cigarette?” Oh, real smooth. Her vision glazed for a moment and then she smiled back. Grace under pressure, never let them see you sweat.
“Which kind, how many do you have?” he asked. He always made fun of her for carrying at least three different boxes with her. She liked variety, in almost everything she craved: cigarettes, drinks, food, men…
“I have your favorites,” she said dropping her nearly extinguished one to the floor and handing him her drink. She dug into her pockets and felt the box out she had saved for him: a cream white one with the classic red triangles and huge Malboro™ lettering across the front. She held her hand out for her drink and put the box in his hand. He smiled and shook his head.
“You know me too well,” he chuckled.
“I know.” She opened a box of her favorite menthols and lit her eighth cigarette of the hour.
“You smoke way too much you know,” he said looking down at her. What about the others he was conversing with? Did they disappear, were they watching? She was too tipsy to tell.
“You tell me that every day.”
“You never listen.”
“Sometimes.” A long silent stare ensued. His eyes, she had never noticed them before; dark, but not sinister or unfriendly, neither mysterious nor shady…just dark. From what they knew, he was shy and quiet, never really got out much except with certain people. She was one of them, and they all knew it. She knew him every day, even when he was quiet, the real him, what he was really like. Hard to imagine how they even got along, they were almost complete opposites in public. People were still confused even then how they were friends, or more than that, from what they had seen or heard. Their private life was pretty private, not many people knew what went on between them when they were alone, and it was never anything they couldn’t tell anyone, they just did not. Wrestling in his house, drinking at hers, playing the piano, watching strange movies, eating, sleeping, smoking, talking, singing and just being best friends in general. That was what they were, it is what he called her, it was what she called him. It was what they called each other. It was perfect that way it seemed. Nobody seemed to really know what they were about, and it is usually better that way isn’t it?
“Which kind, how many do you have?” he asked. He always made fun of her for carrying at least three different boxes with her. She liked variety, in almost everything she craved: cigarettes, drinks, food, men…
“I have your favorites,” she said dropping her nearly extinguished one to the floor and handing him her drink. She dug into her pockets and felt the box out she had saved for him: a cream white one with the classic red triangles and huge Malboro™ lettering across the front. She held her hand out for her drink and put the box in his hand. He smiled and shook his head.
“You know me too well,” he chuckled.
“I know.” She opened a box of her favorite menthols and lit her eighth cigarette of the hour.
“You smoke way too much you know,” he said looking down at her. What about the others he was conversing with? Did they disappear, were they watching? She was too tipsy to tell.
“You tell me that every day.”
“You never listen.”
“Sometimes.” A long silent stare ensued. His eyes, she had never noticed them before; dark, but not sinister or unfriendly, neither mysterious nor shady…just dark. From what they knew, he was shy and quiet, never really got out much except with certain people. She was one of them, and they all knew it. She knew him every day, even when he was quiet, the real him, what he was really like. Hard to imagine how they even got along, they were almost complete opposites in public. People were still confused even then how they were friends, or more than that, from what they had seen or heard. Their private life was pretty private, not many people knew what went on between them when they were alone, and it was never anything they couldn’t tell anyone, they just did not. Wrestling in his house, drinking at hers, playing the piano, watching strange movies, eating, sleeping, smoking, talking, singing and just being best friends in general. That was what they were, it is what he called her, it was what she called him. It was what they called each other. It was perfect that way it seemed. Nobody seemed to really know what they were about, and it is usually better that way isn’t it?
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