Rooftops

I'm on your roof. It's a grey, bright day. The kind of day that never entails something good, but nothing bad, either. The kind of day that likes to try and block out emotions.

I had gone downstairs (quietly, because yes, we know the rest of the apartment hates you) to bum a cigarette; we need some tobacco to use in our joint, right? I know you were supposed to sell that weed, and you only had two dime bags left, but you said you'd share one of them with me anyway. I manage to get a cigarette off a middle-aged lady at the bus stop, and I'm lucky-- she gives me Malboro Reds, my favorite.

I walk back up the creaky steps to apartment number nine on the third floor. You always leave your door open since you've lost your key. You dawdle until I pull you by the hand up to the rooftop.

We go on the highest part of it, the part that there's not even a ladder to climb up to or any crappy patio furniture on. I jump on the railings then hoist myself up to the highest point around. I take off my vest and sit down. The back of my black t-shirt is slashed and shows off my back and my lacy teal bra; I can see you looking.

We sit there and talk. Listening to Morbid Angel and Slayer on your fancy phone that you got as a present for getting your GED. You roll the joint and we smoke up and it's nice-- It's good shit. I start feeling a little delirious-- not as uninhibited as alcohol makes me, but portions crazy all the same. You're already delirious, because you took Xanax with your Methadone today. Eyes half closed, speech always mumbled-- But I don't really mind. You were sober for me for the past three days, anyway.

We move closer and closer together gradually, your hand latches onto mine. You're lying down and I'm propped up on one elbow, still talking. You hold up your phone and take a picture of me. I laugh, No way, not now, I look like shit. No you don't, you say, You never look like shit. I laugh again.

I lay my head on your chest and as you grab for your phone to change the song, I change my position so I'm sitting straddling you. You change the song to Extreme Noise Terror and I lean down and start kissing you. You kiss me back, hands in my hair, wrapped around my back under my t-shirt, pulling me as close to you as humanely possible. You run your fingernails gently down my back and give me goosebumps. We kiss and kiss and do more and more until more comes to a climax and we're both lying there, exhausted, happy, breathing heavily still. You smell like the drugs you sell and that shower gel shit that boys use and that nice warm smell that all boys kinda seem to have and I inhale. You kiss me on the cheek and I smile.

Your phone's ringing. Is it Nicola?, I say. Yeah, you answer, checking the caller I.D. and rolling your eyes a bit. You pick up, say a few things that I don't listen to, then we get fixed up and walk downstairs.

We walk up to 8th street, and you buy a spoon for ten cents to eat that pudding shit you're addicted to with. You have to go meet up with Nicola since she wants you to buy her a phone (you lost her old one when you were high) and a drop of guilt starts to worm its way into my mind, but the desperate look and kiss you give me just before you leave changes that. I wave goodbye, then walk towards 10th street to see who's around.

How is it that doing something that's so bad can feel so fucking good?