A Token Of Friendship

The cold settled in the subway station like an unwelcome guest, its icy fingers reaching between the gaps in the turnstiles all the way down to the tracks. The irony of a subway station being above ground did not escape Dalia as she aimlessly paced through the station, the crunch of fresh snow echoing under the worn soles of her black combat boots. Her “going out” boots, as she likes to call them.

The air hung heavy with the crisp scent of winter, with frost painting delicate patterns on the train time signals. F Train, 28 minutes. Dalia then checks the time on her watch: 9:05 pm. She sighs, and her exhale hangs in the air for a moment, a puff of warm breath battling the relentless cold. 

She’s late again, Dalia thinks, regarding the absence of her best friend Nia. 

In the thirteen years she’s known her, Nia has never been on time. The two live within walking distance from each other, and yet Dalia is used to waiting for her, blasting music in her headphones as she memorizes all the chips in the wall paint and counts the cracks in each tile of the train station. Though she’d never admit it, Dalia tries hard to be late in hopes that one day Nia would beat her here, and wait for her for once. She wonders what that would make her feel.  

Annoyed, Dalia brings the lid of her coffee cup to her mouth and takes a swig. Some of it seeped out from the cup and onto her shirt, but she wasn’t worried: vodka doesn’t stain. 

She got the idea from Nia last time they went out. We won’t get stopped by transit police for drinking in public because they’ll think we’re good little girls drinking tea, Nia said to her, eyes glassy from the ecstasy they took from a stranger they met at The Box. Dalia had to admit it was pretty genius. She also liked it because she didn’t have to flirt her way out of a ticket ever again. 

Smiling from the hazy memory, Dalia blots the corners of her mouth with the sleeve of her leather jacket, careful not to smudge her blood red lipstick. She didn’t like the color very much, but Nia always told her to wear it because it was bold. Dalia believes just being friends with Nia is the boldest part about her. After all, Nia was the only one who could convince her to go clubbing on a weeknight with no set plans. If Dalia were to ask any questions, she’d receive nothing more than a shrug from her friend. Be reckless and live a little for once, Nia would tell her. The wind picked up again and she felt her knees buckle from her ruthless shivering. 

“Fucking hell,” Dalia says, cursing the cold as she sits on the bench, listening to her voice echoing between the columns of the empty station. Cupping her hands over her mouth, Dalia begins to breathe out slowly onto her hands, transferring the warmth and moisture from her mouth. She then rubs her hands on the ridges of her ripped stockings, forcing the friction to give her body some semblance of heat. She sure as hell wasn’t dressed for this weather, but then again, she made the executive decision that alcohol would be her jacket for the evening. 

Grabbing the neck of her Grey Goose bottle from its brown paper bag, she pops the lid off her coffee cup and makes way for a refill. As the shiny moonlit liquid makes its way to the brim, she hears the turnstile click.

“Hey! Aren’t you gonna save some for me?” her best friend says, casually running towards her in four inch heels, with outstretched arms. Of course, said arms had donned a styrofoam coffee cup of their own to match Dalia’s. 

“Right on time,” Dalia responded, rolling her eyes as she filled her friend’s cup. “Do you think you can ever be on time for once, Nia?” 

“Oh, you know me, I got carried away—”

“Did you nap again instead of getting ready?”

“That was one time!” Nia whined, her nose already red and sniffling from the weather. 

“It was about three now, actually,” Dalia says, correcting her. 

“Anyways,” Nia says, exaggerating the ending of the word to indicate she was ignoring Dalia’s comment. “I got carried away buying…this!” 

Her hand whips out of her jacket pocket to reveal a joint sealed in a Star Wars Ziploc bag.

“Is your dealer a seven year old boy?” Dalia quips, barely able to get the sentence out through her laughter. 

“More like he’s the DILF of one,” Nia says with a wink. “How much time do we have?”

Dalia glances at the signal box. “15 minutes,” she says, turning back to face Nia, who already has the joint between her pursed lips as she fumbles through her purse for a lighter. 

As the faint glow of the street lamps rest on Nia’s face, Dalia notices how the snowflakes caught in the red coils of her best friend's hair shimmered like glitter. It reminded her of when they were kids, playing in the snow until their hair became as frostbitten as their faces. Normal kids liked building snowmen, while they liked attacking each other with snowballs. The two of them have never been good at building anything together. 

“I wonder what place Jax has in mind tonight,” Nia says, blowing a cloud of smoke right into Dalia’s face before holding the blunt out for her to take it. A token of friendship. “He mentioned he could get us into Stranger, the club with burlesque dancers and people in leather bodysuits and masks!”

“Sounds like a circus,” Dalia says, taking the blunt from Nia. She made a note to wash her hair when she got home before work early tomorrow morning. Having long hair meant every scent stuck to it: weed included. And she’d rather explain her 7 a.m. mophead to her boss than get labeled a druggie at the office. 

“Still better than Little Sister,” Nia says, “No one goes clubbing on a Tuesday but us and those stupid bouncers had the nerve to say I couldn’t be let in with my orthopedic shoes!” 

“To be fair, you were wearing New Balances,” Dalia says, taking another hit. 

“This is proof bullying works,” Nia says, sticking up her long brown heeled boots. If there were anyone else at the station, she surely would’ve flashed them considering the tiny plaid miniskirt she was wearing. “Now I have to sacrifice my feet to look good.”

“Well at least they didn’t call your nose big,” Dalia says, a chill raking its way down her spine. She never minded her Middle Eastern features until a New York City club bouncer tried to convince her to get a nose job to be let inside. 

“I swear I was about to break his nose just for saying that,” Nia says, putting her right hand on Dalia’s arm to comfort her as she takes the joint back in her left. 

“Always with the threats…” Dalia said with a half-baked exhale. 

“What can I say?” Nia says, shrugging. “Vodka makes me violent.”

“Cheers to that,” Dalia says, lifting her cup to meet Nia’s. 

The girls huddled closer as the cold wrapped its tendrils around everything, creating a world where time seemed to stand still. The only movement was the slow descent of snowflakes, the flashing of the train timer, and the rise of smoke billowing around them as they share the two things they have left in common: drugs and alcohol. 

Nia, baring her midriff to the icy air, shudders as Dalia wraps her arms around her, resting her head on Nia’s shoulder. Nia throws her head back and finishes the last of the vodka in her coffee cup.

The silence between them left Dalia’s mind racing with millions of questions she wished Nia would answer. But she knows not to ask for more than what’s given when it comes to Nia’s life. Drugs, sex, parties: these were Nia’s preferred topics. Fidgeting with the rusted zipper on her jacket, she musters up the courage to change the conversation. 

“How’s work been lately?” Dalia asks.

“It’s been fine,” Nia states without any hesitation. 

“School?” Dalia asks, trying once more. 

“Good,” Nia answers, reaching over Dalia’s lap to grab the bottle between her feet. 

Before Dalia can pester her friend for more details, she watches as Nia forgoes the coffee cup and drinks straight from the bottle itself. Defeated, Dalia just nods and stares back at the train signal clock: F Train, 2 minutes. 

Tonight would be another sleepless night that Dalia would regret the next morning at work. It would be a night of substances without sustenance. Another night of feeling that the only thing growing together in her and Nia’s relationship is their alcohol tolerance levels. 

Dalia’s hands are suddenly balled into fists, grabbing onto the tears in her stockings the way she wished she could hold onto her childhood best friend. She opens her mouth to speak her mind, to ask Nia why they’re growing apart, to plead for her to open up more. But as the weed mixes with the vodka swirling in her bloodstream, she’s unsure whether she wants to fight it. Fight her. 

The wind picks up again, flurries of snowflakes whipping Dalia’s head to the side like a sharp slap to the face. She finds herself staring at the turnstiles, the snow gathered between the bars. Without thinking, she picks her head up off Nia’s shoulder and stands up, her mind playing with the thought of walking out of the station. 

“Are you still going?” Nia asks.

“W-What?” Dalia responds, paranoid that Nia could tell she’s thinking of leaving. 

Nia stands, pulling at the hem of her skirt, and raises her right hand to gesture towards the end of the blunt.

“I’ve been saving the last of it for you,” Nia says. 

“Oh I—” Dalia says, interrupted by a pair of frosted yellow headlights and the blaring of the F train’s outdated horn. 

A gust of warm air rises as the body of the train makes its way into the station, wheels sparking against the electrical rail on the tracks. Without a word, Nia placed the joint in Dalia’s mouth and held the flame of her lighter so close to Dalia’s face, she shuddered from the sheer heat. As if it were anesthesia, Dalia closes her eyes and inhales the last of the drug.

Dalia’s eyes swing open at the sound of the train doors unlatching, her arm suddenly looped in Nia’s as Nia tosses the fizzled butt of the joint onto the platform and pulls her into the nearest cart. Already in a drunken stupor, the two stumble and fall into the bench seats. The entire train cart stared at them, and while Dalia avoided eye contact, Nia found herself in a bubbling fit of laughter. 

“I can feel it in the air,” Nia says, eyes glittering with mischief. “Tonight will be one of those nights we’ll be too embarrassed to tell our kids about.”

Dalia returns her best friend’s words with a faint smile, eyes trained on the exit doors. One last chance to leave. Her left leg begins to shake, waiting for her mind to give it an action. Her eyes darted from the doors to Nia’s wide brown eyes. Dalia couldn’t tell if she was too high or if Nia was begging her to stay. Lingering on her friend for a moment too long, a bell chime rings out, signaling the doors to close.

“Got any more goodies for our dreadful hour commute?” Dalia asks her friend, already knowing the answer. 

“I thought you’d never ask,” Nia says, her smile almost wicked.