Prosthetic Head

Tre ran up to Billie’s former room and knocked on the door saying, “Let me in! I want to help you!”
Amy groaned and said, “Come in, Tre.” Tre walked in and sat on the edge of the bed close to Amy. He then told her what he had told Billie before.
She sat in silence for a while, taking it all in. He’s right, the fucker. Then she sighed. “Thanks for the help, Tre,” she gave him a warm hug.
“You should go works things out with Billie. Otherwise he’ll bitch and moan about it for weeks, and that’s no fun.”
Amy laughed. “Yeah, he does seem like the type of guy to have male PMS. See you later, Tre.” She went downstairs and walked hesitantly to the kitchen where Billie was holding his head.
“Hey, Amy…” Billie trailed off.
“Hey, Billie,” she said in a quiet voice.
“Look-”
“I think-”
They abruptly stopped talking.
“You go first,” Billie said.
“Um, I think Tre was right. I think we should be just friends right now.”
“Yeah, me, too. That’d be best.”
They shared an awkward smile. Amy bit her lip. Awkward… Billie smirked and opened his arms. Amy got the message and hugged him. Although he was two or three inches shorter than she was, she still felt protected in his arms, like nothing heinous would ever happen to her as long as Billie was around. Billie hugs were warm and comfortable, like a favorite blanket. She rested her head on his chest and sighed happily. They stayed like this for a few minutes before Amy realized something. “I’m hungry.” They stopped hugging and Amy made a PB&J sandwich.
“You still eat those?” Billie was amused.
“Yes, yes I do. They’re delicious and nutritious.”
“Delicious and nutritious, huh?”
“Yes indeedy. Now let me eat my fucking sandwich in peace!”
“Fine, fine.” Billie sat down at the kitchen table, where Amy was eating her sandwich. He tapped his fingers on the table with a repetitive tattoo. A few seconds later Amy’s throat felt sticky from the peanut butter.
“Billie? Can you get me a glass of milk, please?”
“Sure.” He got Amy a glass of milk and walked back to the table, handing it to her.
“Thanks, man.” She drank some milk and ate her sandwich. After an awkward silence that felt like an hour but was only two minutes, Amy grabbed her sweatshirt with her walkman inside and walked out the front door. She just wanted to chill to some music, think about stuff. She walked to the park she had gone to recently. Some kids were on the swings, so she decided to climb up on the monkey bars and sit on top, dangling her legs off the side. She took out her Walkman and put on “Submission”. Much better than awkward silences in a kitchen.
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Billie knew not to follow her. She just had an air about her that said “I need me time”. He’d let her have it. He needed some me time of his own. He ruffled his hair and groaned. What the fuck, Billie?! Ugh, how could you do this? I need my pot… Billie went to his room and took out his shoebox with his precious mary jane inside, some of which was already rolled up in joints. He took those and walked downstairs and out the door. He walked to Tightwad Hill since Christie Road was too far and he didn’t feet like driving. He wanted the relief to be immediate. When he got there he found a grassy spot that suited him and lied down, taking out his joints and lighting up. He inhaled deeply, then let the smoke out with a gust of breath. That’s more like it. He spent many hours this way, among the junkies. He didn’t mind that one of the many strung out people was rocking themselves, staring into the middle distance, or that another sang “Eleanor Rigby” by The Beatles in a very disturbing way. He felt weightless, carefree, untied. And he loved it. He lived for moments like this.