Fresher Air

I stare at the broken-up dark black spot on the parking lot under my feet. Pavement that's been abused and fixed by vehicles so often that it’s become a patchwork parking lot. Like the inconsistency in the lot - a strange array of people whisper, and gossip in the building lit up behind me. I was able to excuse myself after 15 minutes too long of “oh you’re so so strong”s and “you haven’t changed a bit”s. The air out here in this forever musty town was fresher than the breaths of disappointments and sighs that filled the inside behind me. 

I lit my smoke with the rust-coloured lighter in my pocket. Finicking the lighter back into the tight pockets of the only black pants I could find in my sister's house. 

I heard his district footsteps open and shut the door behind me. I was instantly made insecure of my mothball-scented pants and took a step to my right as if this really protected his nostrils and my ego. The light from the inside briefly flooded onto the dark pavement illuminating his silhouette. I turned my face halfway before the door shut, and the lot returned to its mosaic blacks and greys.

Each time he stands near me, I am somewhat surprised by his height. Looking at him from a distance vs next to you in a deep old parking lot makes for quite the difference in height perception. I could feel a statement rising from his throat that I could tell was filled with a somewhat heavy heart. But before I could hear another word, I lifted my smoke to the height of his chest with a soft grunt to push back at his upcoming words. He smirked and took it. His chest fell with relief, not having to comfort me, knowing neither of us wanted it spoken of more than it already was. I returned a smirk with a smile, followed by an eyebrow raise to let him know of my appreciation. 

  An embarrassingly obnoxious cough escapes my throat. I’d never been able to hide my deep-seated aversion to smoking, yet here I am caving into what I assume is grief. He pretends to ignore my hand on my chest and red face and holds out the smoke back to me. Dignity redemption? I’d never seen him smoke before, which makes me further embarrassed that this is pity company. Either way, his presence held a sort of comfort in this uneasy environment. I straighten my spine and study his steadfast gaze. Especially tonight, I notice his indistinct handsomeness. He’s got the type of look I’d always thought someone would find completely attractive or aggressively conventional.  He drags his smoke long and lets out a cough. Another dignity redemption?

“This town makes you sick,” I baited.

“Yeah, I drove past the plant on my wa-“

“No. No, not like that,” I interrupted, forgetting my usual insecurities.

“I’m surprised it hasn’t hit you yet” I could feel his ears open and eye-site press to mine, listening with intent.

“There’s something about this town, something physical,” I continued. 

I then described to him this town in a way in which only someone born into the beige hospital and grown up in the withering high school could say.

There’s this feeling that the town is constantly harbouring something illicit - almost evil. Every look you’ll exchange with a local, whether on a bar stool, the general store isle, or the forever damp street curb, will seem to contain an eerie secret that you both understand and yet don’t know. You find that the town has this unspoken contagiousness that gives you a deep sort of sickness that can never be explained by any modern doctor. An itchy, stuffy, weighted blanket seems to cover you and all the people and push you into a strong fatigue, a heaviness that makes your eye site grey and your muscles brick. So heavy that nobody ever bothered to push up the weighted blanket above. However, once, there must have been a small hole in this blanket that one woman slowly began to tear at until she could fit through.

“Your mother?” he asked so softly I may have imagined it. 

I went on.

If whatever reason, you came to this town (maybe you drove through it for 4 minutes and winced at the wilted old man and his ancient white dog that share an intense stare as you drove through, or maybe you got lost at night but didn’t dare to ask for directions). Perhaps, you came in the small span of 18 years that my mother lived and dared to doubt the staleness of her birthplace. You may have seen her unbrushed auburn waves bounce as she walked toward the tree line. It could have been her model-esque lank that made her walk as though she was interrogating everyone that sat and stared, grimacing at her in her purposely dirty jeans. Aside from her looks, my mother had an inner strength that never matched the sogginess of the town. Locals walked down the street with their heads held low, knowing each and every rock and crack to avoid in the road. But she looked up and out and watched the movement of the clouds uncover patches of stars. A deep laugh from inside broke my reverie. 

“The truth is, she left here and with that, me. And all for her and I to end up here in this town, darker and lifeless than ever”.

For a split second, it’s as though someone has shaken me by my shoulders and sent a cold breeze down my spine to my ankles. It ends just as quick as it comes. 

It could have been 2 seconds or 2 hours before he spoke again.

“Sure, you left this place behind to change into someone new but did you really grow up if you left all of it inside of you.”

I shuttered at his blatantly honest truth and cracked a smile. I never cared for smoking company but standing this close to him, sharing a smoke was the freshest air I’d had in a long time.