The streetlight bleeds a dim yellow onto the sidewalk. The only other light is coming from the second story window of the house directly across from mine. Why is a light on this late at night?
A boy lives there. He’s my age, maybe a little older and drives a brand new Mercedes. The only interaction we have had was when he gave me the finger after we backed out of our driveways at the same time and almost rear-ended each other. Then he sped off as his polished black wheels screeched.
I take the first hit and hold it in while I turn up the music. My lungs inhale the milky smoke into my scorched esophagus. The numbness travels through my veins making my skin tingle like the pins before the needles. My lungs beg for air, but I wait. I wash the fire from my throat with Chardonnay and make this a pattern. Cough. Swig. Cough. Cough. Bigger swig.
I have to pee and the light from the boy’s room is off. Past the prince’s bedtime? He probably has to be up early so that he can wash his car for the zillionth time and get those rims extra super shiny. He needs to be able to check himself out as he walks away from it. Pretends he’s tying his shoe, but really just checking to see if there is any caviar stuck in his bleached teeth.
The irrelevant thoughts dissolve with a long sip from the half empty bottle. My room reeks, but this window is always a b**** to open. Pressing both hands against the cold glass and shoving upward, it budges just enough to let the smoke blow out. I reach for my lighter and watch as each foggy handprint fades from the window.
A glow interrupts the night. I watch as a silhouette passes, then turns and walks past again. The shadow lingers and I can see that it is him. His hair is darker, wet from a shower but covered by a cut navy hoodie. Crouching, he opens his own window. An orange glow and through the tiny gap between the window and ledge, smoke escapes. It floats gently into the air.
Mesmerized, I stare. Is that...? Another swig. I wonder if he sees me and I feel vulnerable. And as every second passed, the darkness between us was no longer our only connection.
The light of my own room only obstructed by my frail body. My pallid skin concealed by a faded Led Zeppelin shirt that belonged to my father. Stubbled thighs exposed and my arms limp at my side. I hold the neck of a sea-green bottle…
In the same upright position, a boy stands in the second story window of the house directly across from mine. One hand grips a lighter. The other holds a knife.