I Wish I Was a Smoker Part II
“What are you doing?” he asked.
I am going to regret answering the phone.
“About to leave work,” I said. “What’s up?”
“I was about to put a couple burgers on the grill,” he said. “You wanna come over for a bit?”
I stumbled for the right words, my grip on the mop growing tighter. The Clash’s
self- titled record playing in the background.
“I actually have plans,” I told him the truth. “And I’m not that hungry.”
The kind of awkward silence where he knows he’s not getting any.
“Yeah? Well I’ll call another time when I can get lucky.” He hung up.
I heard my mouth make a noise I rarely use.
A riot of my own.
It is two in the morning. My car smells of fast food and crayons. I’m driving home listening to ‘Pissing in a River’ with the window slightly rolled down. The early morning air smells of a faint kind of lonesome. The pages of a vintage Rolling Stone high fiving the faster I drive.
I still wish I was a smoker.