Porchlight
They gaze into the darkness as the warm porch light illuminates their features and the red door behind them. One is smoking a joint, the other drinking a beer. They each put their respective instruments of intoxication to their lips, imbibe, put it down. Take a breath, let it out, rest in silence as the silver swirls about their forms. Synchronized contemplation.
“Do you think I’m vain,” asks the smoker, “Or introspective?”
The drinker takes another swig.
“Whatcha mean?”
“I was thinking about how I only really talk about myself,” the smoker explains, “Every time I talk it’s about something new I’ve learned about myself. Is that vanity? Or a sign I’m thinking deeply?”
“I… don’t think those two things are… what’s it called… mutually exclusive,” the drinker replies, swirling the beer by its neck.
“Is it self-centered?” The smoker presses on, “Or am I thinking too much?”
“You’re definitely thinking too much.”
The drinker smiles while the smoker frowns, putting the joint to their lips once more.
“I’ll take a hit,” the drinker says.
They grab for the joint and exchange the bottle. The smoker looks at the beer distastefully until the objects switch hands again.
“I just want… what is it,” the smoker begins again, “The rewards of being loved. So I submit to the mortifying ordeal of being known. Right?”
“Right.”
“I can’t love my own self, so it’s not enough to simply know myself, I must be known by others.”
“You could though,” the drinker says.
“Could what?”
“Love yourself.”
“Well sure, but I don’t.”
“I think it’s a good thing, personally,” the drinker says, “You’re a moral person. You think a lot. It’s what I love about you.”
“Don’t patronize me.”
“It’s true! I like to listen to you talk.”
“Well, I like to listen to you too.”
There’s a beat of silence in which the joint is smoked and the beer is drunk.
“What a delicate species humans are,” the drinker comments finally.
“You can say that again.”
“What a delicate-”
“Shut up.”
The drinker laughs.
“Just… fragile. Physically and emotionally.”
“It’s because we were meant to take care of each other,” the smoker replied, “We’re built to love, that’s obvious.”
“What a thing to say.”
“I’m serious!”
“Oh, I know you are.”
The smoker pouts.
“Why do you think people are so fragile, then?”
“I don’t think there has to be a why,” the drinker replies, “Sometimes things just are. The sky is dark, the snow is cold, and human beings are fragile creatures.”
“There are reasons for all of those things.”
“There’s always a reason, to you,” the drinker says.
“Is there?”
“Yes. Always a why.”
The smoker holds the joint halfway to their mouth in silence, before taking a draw.
“I didn’t know that about myself,” they say, “So I suppose you’re wrong.”
“About what.”
“Well, you said I can love myself.”
“Yes?”
“But I can’t if I don’t know myself.”
The drinker tips the bottle but there is less than a sip remaining.
“That’s what I’m here for,” the drinker says, “I teach you about yourself and you teach me about me.”
“I teach you about myself and you teach me about you.”
“And that’s love.”
The smoker coughs, and the drinker grabs the joint for themself.
“You’re out of beer,” the smoker observes when they take it back, “And I’m out of weed. You wanna go back inside?”
“We can stay out if you like.”
“No, I’m ready.”
The red door cracks open and for a moment the voices within escape, swirl around with the lingering smoke, before the door closes again to cut them off. Inside, undoubtedly, the process continues with the larger group: teaching, learning, loving.
