“D’y know what your problem is?”
I shrugged. In my own mind, it’s a long list. Maybe it was a lack of self-confidence? That’d make sense in this context.
“You love your parents.”
‘Yes?’
“Exactly.” Turns out, this was the correct answer. She stubbed her cigarette out on her knee and hissed like a cat.
‘…is that so bad?’
She pushed off from the brick wall and landed with a jangly thump, the chains on her jeans rattling in sympathy.
“No. It’s good.” With a closed fist, she gently nudged my chin. “Love your folks and all that shit. Just…. know when to change your tracks.”
‘Change my….?’
“You’re so sweet.” I’d waited over a year for a compliment, and when it finally arrived it was a letdown. So sweet. She’d called Dylan sweet, but that was different. Sweet to him was a challenge. It was derogatory. She was saying let’s go out. Fuck me. My sweet was a tattoo that I could never burn off.
She asked… well, actually, she demanded that I excuse her for a moment. Dropping her jeans down, she squatted on the floor. A stream of piss shot from beneath, like a yellow laser through the pebbles and gravel below. She was always elemental, and now the air around us filled with the smell of Honey Nut Cereal, even as I looked away.
Her connection to everything was total, whereas I slipped over life as though it were sheet ice, trying to make my way.
jimmi campkin 