Please, Take Me Home

"I knew you'd be here."

"No, you didn't."

"You're always here."

"Aren't you observant."

"I like to think so."

With that he snorted, the kind of snort that makes you feel small and insignificant, the kind of unsophisticated, thing that gives him such an air that he could be the highest aristocrat there is and you're just a measly bathroom sweeper without your snorting ways.

"I really wish you wouldn’t do that."

"Yeah, well it keeps me sane."

"That’s insane."

Another snort.

"So, you wanna talk about it."

"No."

I rubbed my chapped hands together, sitting on the cold bench next to him, against the yellowing add. I don’t really understand why someone thought putting an add on a bench would be a good idea. Somebody's back is always going to obscure your view on- Paul's magical hair growth serum. Though, I do salute you Paul, that’s a risky subject to slap your name on, to that I give you props.

The plum smoke twirled and swirled past my frozen nose. I watched it slowly diminish into the wind, crinkling my nose in its usual reaction to the putrid smell.

Jack only smokes when something's bothering him. He smokes like a truck driver with an iron lung, he puffs until his lips are puckered and dry. He smokes until his eyes are blood shot and have a sty, he doesn’t stop until the pack gone. He uses it as a life support. I guess everyone has a way to deal.

I myself prefer ben&jerry's in front of a full screen of Gilmore Girls, and that may be just as unhealthy as his cancer sticks. Considering, that I have this theory that one day the t.v. is going to send off radio-active waves and the ice cream is going straight to my thighs. A few more break-ups and I and old Jackee should be equal on the artery scale.

He crossed his one outrageously long leg over the other, his tight jeans showing an inch of ankle. I stared transfixed on that pale skin for a few moments, until he sighed and stood up. I watched with fixed curiosity, honestly with the wide eyes and open mouth for all those nasty little bugs to go in. Wonderful.

I watched still as he carelessly flicked a burning ember to the ground, took one more inhale of toxic air and threw the half finished stub to the ground. I thought maybe he had dropped it by accident, even with the tale-tale signs of him practically throwing it down like a pro baseball star.

"Where are you going?"

"When are you coming?" He asked, completely ignoring my question. I would let that drop for now. Now, I just followed him, like a puppy on a leash, right on his heels, his heels that went clickety, click. Oh my I sound like a children's rhyme.

We walked through the smoggy streets, not talking, him, not even acknowledging me. Its times like these that I feel the most pathetic. Even though it should be him. I didnt just go through a catastrophe, I'm not the one shrouding out the world, I'm not the one practically begging (even though he would never go as low as to beg, oh no he shows mercy to no one.) for attention with those boy-lost-in-neverland look in his eyes and permanent outcast pout. Or maybe I'm thinking too into this, he hates that about me, among other things.

His clicking heels thudding up concrete steps, opening the metal door with one thin hand, the dry paleness of it making a stark contrast from the wet brick. A buzzer went off as we stepped into the frigid walls outlining the adjourning metal staircase. Our apartments didnt even have and elevator it was so cheap.

He continued paying no head to me, until we had passed two landings of the staircase.

"Mine or yours?"

"Uh. . . yours?" I never let it be at mine. I had to live there, I would never be able to comfortably sleep there again if it was at mine. I would probably sell the place or walk with my eyes closed even when I unlocked my door, just so I wouldnt catch a glimpse. Its awkward enough going to his place, I stare at the off-white carpet the whole time. Which really isnt even an off white anymore, from years of neglect and lack of vacuum it has turned gray, not a pleasant gray either, like the afterwards of fireworks gray, that freaky brown color shooting through.

The next morning, I stared out the streaked window, it was such a thick layer of muck the sun didnt even both me. I guess thats how he likes everything- away and unobserving.

He didnt even make noises when he slept, I couldnt hear a thing from my huddled spot on the other end of the bed. Luckily today I had claimed most of the covers as my own, its always a good morning when you get the covers.

His voice rang clear no sleep apparent whatsoever.

"Get up, we have things to do."

So maybe he wasn't sleeping after all.

"What no good morning?"

"Hurry up." Campaign

I'm always ignored.

I guess that's what friends are for?