wind blows, leaving behind goosebumps on their washed-out skin. the two girls are huddled together against the cold one breathes out, her exhalation of smoke made thicker by the chill the cloud dissipates slowly; the other girl watches it go. it inspires a keen nostalgia in her for the simpler times when it was only about cigarettes and weed, when they only worried about hiding the butts of joints from their mothers. it inspires a keen nostalgia in her for the simpler times before everything got worse and they both needed more to soothe the itch. we can start again next week, the smoking girl says, once this weather warms up a bit i don’t want to do anything with all this cold here. the weather has not been warm since last year, the other girl doesn’t say this, she only nods and accepts the pipe from her friend. she says, i’m getting tired of this she’s been tired of this for years. preaching to the choir, her friend says and takes the pipe back to take her next hit she blows it out, her soft mouth puckered lips violently red against her sallow skin. the girl wipes her nose; the cold is making it run. we have to stop, she says. the girl beside her doesn’t respond, she watches the smoke float away lazily looking as though she wishes she could follow it up into the clouds. i know.
it was a cold year; l.m.