A STEP IN THE RIGHT DIRECTION

Act 3: A Thorn in my side

I should stop smoking weed.

Now, let me be clear, I didn't green out this time. I actually had the time of my life, feeling all bubbly and full of myself.

However, the problem is that weed acts like a relaxant, knocking down all the barriers between my thoughts and my mouth, so whatever I thought was said.

And amongst all the nonsense I spoke, I had said something very stupid.

I said I might be gay.

I had committed to myself years ago that I wouldn't put myself until I was ready, and I hadn't planned on it yet, and I then winrt and fucked up my own plan.

It's not as if I'm ashamed of myself, but I don't want people to make it a part of me, to make my name synonymous with that term.

Fuck

                                 .....

Daryll made the decision to walk me back to mine, or at least close enough so I could sober-up and make my own way.

The trip back was, indeed, sobering, as the bitter winds dragged me back into a sobriety ridden consciousness that reminds me of my big fucking mouth.

I am so fucking embarrassed.

Daryll seems unfazed.

We've made it most of the way now, beyond the little pockets of abandoned buildings pointed out to me prior and well beyond Anderson's. My house draws near.

"We're close now." Daryll reassures, eyes however fixated Infront, watching the road ahead.

"I'm sorry about earlier."

"Sorry for what?"

"The..." I struggle for the word, one perfect enough to describe my idiocies.

"The pineapples?" Daryll chuckles as he finishes my sentence, undoubtedly still finding amusement in my confusion about the spiky fruits.

"Ha, no," I smirk with him, trying to match his current state,"I'm more sorry about the dumping. I had no control."

"It's good, Blake. It's fine. I don't care." The coyote nonchalantly retorts to my apologies, looking at me, my slouch forcing our eyes to meet at his level.

Was he always this short? Or have I just never noticed?

"I should probably stop offering you the shit I smoke. Get you on something a little lighter next time."

"I'd rather not, next time. Please."

"Ok."

We begin to near my street, the cul-de-sac in sight, the familiar cars and houses and street signs all signals of an end to my outing this evening.

We walk without haste, letting the warm air of an ending summer linger on usz it's dying heat comforting in the dark.

Speaking of dark, it's nearing nine o'clock.

Yes, I spent nearly two hours sat in a bench talking bollocks about fucking pineapples. Safe to say I'm very lucky that Daryll is quite conservative in himself, so I don't think that information is going anywhere. I used to know a few people that would give me shit for a long time had they caught me doing that.

Hence my reasoning to not smoke that shit anymore, thank you very much.

I feel a tap on my arm, a backhand touch that sends an unwanted shiver down my spine, the gentle touch so innocent that it makes my internal reaction seem pathetic.