I sat on the step alone tonight, my step, smoking. The last cigarette in the pack. The last one in the house, until I am a writer again. I knew where you were, but I didn’t dare call, not for lack of desperation, but to see if you would call me.
You never call me.
The dog-walkers look at me sideways because no one in this town smokes. I stare at the stray embers that have come to rest on my feet. The fireflies are here, finally. I thought the rain would never stop.
I listen for the phone and wonder if I could get up from the step if you did call. But I can’t, I’m too tired, I’m too old for this, but I’m too young to not try. I am cemented, thinking of the night as hot as this one when we could have been, if we hadn’t been so smart. If you hadn’t been so smart.
We have had our share of awkward mornings just the same, me hiding behind my bangs and you making small talk and smiling. You always smile at me. Had I kissed you that night, I am pretty sure you would have tasted like whiskey and Guinness. If I had kissed you.
