Stupid and down bad

It’s been quite a while since Foggy last dabbled in his old guilty pleasure, and yet the motions are second nature. He bought pre-rolled, but there’s still a lingering joy in the small weight between his fingers. The lighting up. The first puff, then the actual pull. The musky smell of his college dorm and a…simpler time. 

Pulling the joint away from his lips, he continues to inhale and lets the smoke curl deeper. It’s melodramatic, but he leans his head back and blows the smoke out. The wind carries it away. Marci would scold him if he were to even think about smoking inside. He learned the hard way with a celebratory cigar; she claims the smell is still stuck to the couch cushions. The balcony will suffice. 

Foggy brings the joint back and takes a deeper hit. As he blows the smoke out and away, he coughs and probably hacks up a small portion of his lung. Not smoking in a while will do that to ‘ya. God, the last time he smoked was…probably a few summers ago with Theo.

Although the Nelsons are a close family, Foggy has been missing moments. Missing the occasional birthday party and random celebration. And that’s on him. They tease him for it, saying he’s a hotshot lawyer with paperwork to do, but he can hear the twinge in his parents’ voices He can see Theo’s twisted smile. He should be more present. He should be with his family. He should be better.

Another inhale brings the smoke to the bottom of his chest. He only coughs a little. 

The list of ‘shoulds’ is miles long.

He should be excited about his life. This is what he wanted. He’s an ethical lawyer. He actually gives a damn about clients and their wellbeing. He should be happy. He’s got a swanky apartment with a balcony. He’s seeing Marci and he’s pretty sure they’re a few dates away from something serious. Work is going well; he’s never short on cases at Hogarth, Chao & Benowitz. God, such a mouthful.

He should call Karen again; it’s been a few days since he last called. She’s doing okay, settling into the PI life just fine. Last time they talked, she mentioned getting a cat…maybe he’s not the only one who feels lonely. He should ask how San Francisco is treating her. They better be treating her well. 

Hopefully, it’s nothing like how New York has been treating Matt. Foggy keeps up with the vigilante news, always trying his best not to seem too interested. But Matt’s been bad lately: throwing himself into shit again and again and again. He should call him. Would he answer? Foggy’s eyes smart. Probably because of the pot. Dry eyes and all that.

The joint meets his lips again, and there’s a small crackle of burning paper. It turns a light orange and fades out.

It just sucks because Foggy thought he was doing an okay job. That he was being a good friend. He thought that Matt would come around and…and what? Want to actually talk? That he would come around and ask Foggy how he was doing? See if he was okay? Even if Matt bothered to call and ask, he’s not quite sure what the answer would be. Another drag leaves him hazier than before. 

Looking out onto the street below, he watches others speedwalk while talking on the phone. Do I look like that? The streetlamps are always bright. Never a burnt bulb. There’s always artificial light. Another hit. His mouth is so dry that the paper sticks to his lips. He’ll probably finish this joint, have another, then head in. 

Foggy’s not quite sure what the impromptu smoke session is for. An escape, probably. He’s been coping for a long time. A long time. He can deal with bullshit. That seems to be the majority of his life, so it’s not like he’s out of practice. Yet, today was the heaviest day he’s felt in ages. Like a physical weight pulled his soul down, which doesn’t make sense; he won his case today. There were pats on the back and smiles. There were experienced esquires with impressed faces and ‘congratulations’. My mouth is so dry. He smacks his lips. 

I miss the before. The times when everything had potential, and he was naive. It’s cheesy and probably stupid, but he misses college. Community.

He misses his best friend. Shit. Pangs of sorrow beat him from the inside out. Like it's desperate to escape his body. I miss my best friend, but I don’t think he misses me. The sudden and painful thoughts make him cough a dry laugh. Instead of dwelling on it or taking time or energy to unpack the thought, he stores it away.

Foggy can see it now: A mini-him inside his brain, picking up the thought, putting it in a box, and bringing it to the back of his mind. The sides of the imaginary cardboard box bulge and threaten to burst. With furrowed brows, he takes another hit. The box is still there, but it’s further away. 

A few years ago, Foggy would have sat with that awful thought, tried to understand and work through it, but now, he can’t afford to think about it. Because yeah, Foggy has never felt so tired in his life. And he’s never felt so unbelievably alone, but…but…where was I going with that? A dopey giggle falls from his loose mouth. He rubs a hand across his face, then brings the joint back to his lips. Just stop thinking, dude. 

The night dives into a deeper darkness, but the streetlamps stay the same. His hands and face are cold from the wind. Another joint is smoked and gone. He pretends everything is good. He pretends that he’s happy. A small stupor overtakes him; the wind doesn’t sting, and clouds of cotton pull him away from the busy world. 

He’s not quite sure when he went back inside and got into bed, but he does remember snubbing both of the roaches against the metal table. He had entertained the idea of flicking them off the edge, but left them sitting out. Did I shut the door?