All Damn Day | Post Malone

Chapter 7

Austin

He needs a damn cigarette.

He wandered back into the living room only to find himself glancing to the side every five seconds, wondering if she'd come back in with her quiet charm and golden legs and tell him that she'd made up her mind. Logically he knew that it would probably take days, maybe weeks for her to make her decision, but his anticipation was making him impatient.

He'd never been good at waiting.

He turns off the TV and pats his front pocket to check he has his cigarettes and lighter on him, and he tells himself he needs some fresh air even though he knows he'll just be inhaling smoke, anyway. It's definitely not to be closer to where she is right now, he assures himself.

He traipses out onto the back patio, inhaling the California air deep into his lungs. He stands by the end of the pool for a few minutes, looking out over the faraway hills that stretch far beyond the white paneled fence protecting the back portion of the property they're renting. He likes this house, he decides. It's quiet without being isolated, and the air around him is calming instead of lonely, though he can't deny that that's an inherent part of him, anyway, no matter where he goes. He thinks about going back to Utah in a few months when all of his obligations here have been dealt with, and it doesn't bring him the same amount of relief as it once did.

Nothing brings him the same amount of relief as it once did.

He doesn't know what his problem is, but he's tired of trying to figure it out so he chalks it up to being overworked even though he really hasn't been lately. He's been working, of course, but he hasn't been nonstop like he is when he's on tour, and it occurs to him just now that maybe that's exactly the problem. He was nonstop for such a long time that he didn't have time to notice this feeling crawling up his spine, and now it's wrapping itself around him like a boa constrictor slowly killing its prey. He tries to pry it off, but it's attached to him now, and he's either too tired or too unmotivated to wrestle it away.

He sighs, wondering when he'd become such a depressing fuck. He sits himself down on the edge of the pool, and he plucks a cigarette from the carton that's been at home in his front pocket. He lights it on the third try, and he blames the wind instead of his own frustration even though the mild breeze isn't even strong enough to blow the leaves of the palm trees.

He focuses his eyes on the pool, watching the way the rippling water distorts the white lights underneath. They make the water glow like some type of otherworldly portal, and he wonders if dipping his toe in might take him someplace else, like an aquatic version of Narnia. The thought intrigues him, the phrase sounding like it might make a good hook or bridge or whatever the fuck, and he notes it in his mind to jot down later. He should really start bringing a notepad around with him, like he's Inspector Gadget or something, because his memory has always been piss poor and that's gotten him into trouble on more than one occasion. He'd use his phone, but he's been avoiding that lately, since he's become a fan of the whole out of sight, out of mind thing.

He wipes his thoughts of that, though, because thinking about the past is only going to depress him more and he's trying really hard to not make himself miserable. So he brings his cigarette to his lips and gives his head a shake, and he tries not to acknowledge that it's more twitch-y than anything. He's aware of the ticks he's developed—thanks in large part to the internet pointing them out—but he doesn't like to think about them.

Out of sight, out of mind.

He exhales a plume of smoke into the air, flicking ash beside him and trying to think of something else to think of but his vices are at the forefront of his mind right now and he hates the way they stare back at him.