āYou know,ā she said, looking over at me, āI donāt think you can see whatās going to happen next. I know you think you know everything, but I donāt think you can see the forest for the trees-ā
Yeah, I know itās bad to write with cliches. But theyāre cliches for a reason.
āLife is neither as bad nor as good as your heart wants you to believe. Look- even now, youāre orchestrating your own guardian angel.ā I flick my cigarette out the window. Sheās right. Iāve always considered myself more intelligent than most, but maybe thatās the dead giveaway that Iām fucking not. Itās not that nothing can save me, itās that I donāt need to be saved- or maybe I donāt believe I need to be saved. What is it really about except for the disparity between what you think should be happening versus what is actually happening?
Anyway, she keeps telling me to quit smoking and itās for selfish reasons only. She wants me alive, but what does it matter to her? She can see me dead or alive. āItās not about that.ā She exhales, and pinches the bridge of her nose. āYou know Iām just saying what youāre thinking, and if you think itās coming from somewhere outside of you, itās harder to argue with it.ā
I argue with it anyway, because of course I do. Itās hard not to. I always have argued most with those who care the most. Is it a way to test them, to see if they think Iām a worthy adversary? Is it boredom? Itās probably both.
āYou always want to sound so compelling, but coming out of your mouth I canāt tell what your motives are.ā We both say this at the same time somehow. The dimensions are blurred. I donāt know the specific mechanics of it, but it has to do with loving things so hard that they fragment. Like a dried leaf a child picks up because itās shaped like a heart, or their face, or a shoe. They hold it so tightly and with such excitement that the leaf starts crumbling, little bits of leaf dust being the only remnants of a fervor so innocent.
We breathe in and split again as she turns the key in the ignition. āYou gonna smoke another one?ā She asks, knowing the answer before I touch the matchbox. Itās tough. I consider that maybe I love myself too much, enough to lie to myself about how awful, how manipulative of a person I am. I put my hands on my knees, the lit cigarette balancing between the pointer and middle of my left hand. āI donāt know, and Iām so scared of not knowing.ā
I look at her and sheās glowing, happy to see me finally admit my fear. But sheās also literally glowing, because sheās the best parts of my psyche mixed with the best parts of the angels I grew up reading about. āHave you decided you donāt want to have kids?ā
āI donāt know. I canāt trust anyone with anything, and being a control freak doesnāt make me a good mother. Being scared of everything doesnāt make you safer, it just makes you tired.ā
I inhale, praying that this is the drag that changes it all, that there will be a my-life-before-this-smoke and a my-life-after-this-smoke.
But it isnāt, and itās not, and unfortunately we are on a one-way street in Denton, Texas, and if thatās not a metaphor, I donāt know what the fuck is. Miss your stop on Elm? Thatās okay, take a left on Ferguson, take a left on Locust. Take another left on Third, and then youāre back on Elm. Miss it again? Thatās fine, go up to the square. Make a bigger loop and hope for the best next time.
āSo, do you know whatās gonna happen next?ā I ask her. I try not to think of what sheās gonna say, because sometimes she does still surprise me.
āWho does?ā exasperation, but also desperation. A complicated retort.
āYeah,ā I say, with a wave of my hand holding the cigarette, because obviously weāre being pedantic and she just wants me to get the fuck on with it.
āA little. Not of this, or of you, because this is what has to happen.ā
I nod, like i know what the fuck sheās talking about. This girl talks in riddles, and it almost seems like sheās trying to seem cool, but then I remember that itās me, and sheās lost but about ten times more hopeful.
āI canāt believe you still wear that necklace,ā she says, holding my cigarette.
āI love this necklace,ā i say, touching the aforementioned necklace.
āDo you? Or do you think one day it will serve its purpose?ā
āBoth. Is that a crime?ā
She laughs at me, while I touch the carnelian heart that lives on my throat. I bought it years ago because itās waterproof fake gold and carnelian is supposed to bring love into your life. But honestly, I donāt even know if itās real carnelian, or if I care. I just know that Iāve always worn a necklace and itās nice that this one doesnāt turn the back of my neck green.
āDo you still pray?ā She asks me.
āYeah, all the time.ā
āAnyone who will listen.ā I picture myself on my knees, begging to be heard. The problem with always looking for a sign is that youāre gonna fucking find one.
āTell me about it.ā She rolls her eyes but I can tell she wants to hear me say the real answer.
āUm, I pray to my grandmother I never met. I pray to saint Christopher too-ā
āHeās your only experience with saints. You should broaden your horizons. Thereās a million saints-ā
āYou donāt think I know that?ā
āI know you like to pretend you have catholic guilt, but you just have regular, old-fashioned girl guilt.ā She turns into a parking lot.
āYeah, but saint Christopher is the patron saint of travelers.ā
āMaybe someday. I think Iāve been enough places for now.ā
āHas he protected you?ā
āAs far as I can tell, but who knows whatās actually protecting me?ā
She laughs again, echoing my own.
āLike I said, I donāt think you actually know anything. You just expect certain things and youāve been proven right one too many times. So thus you believe youāre always right. But sometimes, honey, youāre wrong. And I hate to say it, but itās for the best.ā
āYou donāt hate that Iām wrong.ā
āOf course not-we love to be proven wrong.ā
āFocus. Why do you care if I pray?ā
āIām just wondering if youāre still willing to look outside of yourself for answers.ā
I look to the taxi drivers for penance. I try to ignore the songs that remind me of you. Unfortunately theyāre everywhere, every genre. How compelling.