The Smell of Ozone

Chapter2: Brown-Eyed Girl

When I return home, I somehow manage to convince myself that it isn't what it seems. Perhaps the knife wound that remains in my heart still influences me, though its size and effect have diminished since I met Celeste.

We keep in touch through letters with endings that begin with Yours Truly and evolve to Love. I refuse to think anything of it because I remain in the Friend Zone or convince myself it's a God's love kind of thing. There's no way she's interested in me—not like that, anyway.

Yeah, I can be dense sometimes. However, I prefer the term, steadfast. Okay, maybe stubborn works best.

I fail miserably at keeping my mind off of the things she writes. They aren't Friend Zone letters, and I feel myself slipping. Nancy's knife wound is mostly healed. I recognize that though time has helped me through most of it, Celeste's letters are like magical scrolls regenerating my heart. I'm struggling to understand what she sees in me.

I'm not ugly, but I'm no pretty boy either. Not that Celeste is the pretty boy type, but still, her beauty is heart-stopping. My aunt once called me ruggedly handsome, so I don't have a lot going for me.

Sure, some people say that it's not about what you look like, but how you make your partner feel. Then again, while PooBear isn't on Celeste's level, she is quite attractive and she was into me. She also pointed Celeste in my direction.

Am I reaching? Trying too hard? Why can't I simply accept that she may have feelings for me? Self-esteem issues? Or is it because I've had to do some pretty horrible things just to carve out my little oasis of peace in da hood. Maybe I don't think I deserve someone like her because of it.

And then there are the dreams. By the Gods, they are enthralling. Its almost like she's actually there. They aren't those kinds of dreams but close. In them, we've been a couple for years, and we're happy. Like the old TV show Bewitched, kind of happy.

In them, she's either a witch or a mage because she can do magic, real magic. I'm like a technomage because I invent devices that allow me to do many of the same things she can do. I guess my weird will never cease, not as long as Celeste is in my life.

I walk out to my porch after the sun goes down. The cool breeze feels good, and, for the moment, my hood is quiet-ish. I lean against one of the corner posts and listen to the crickets chirp, and the cicadas sing.

I take a sip of sweet tea and close my eyes, enjoying the welcome chill of the liquid as it soothes my parched throat. I sigh, and a smile stretches my face. I haven't heard a gunshot for the last few hours. That's got to be a record.

The guy who runs the local... group walks up to the porch. "Wassup, Femi."

"It's all good, Marquis. Everything cool?"

I always want to correct how he wants his name pronounced, but I refrain. If he wants to hear the s-sound at the end, who am I to complain? I mean, it is his name, after all, and at least he doesn't pronounce the u.

He nods his head. "Yeah. Jus' wanna shout out to you for trainin' my boys."

I shrug one shoulder and swipe a hand at an annoying fly. "All part of the deal, my brother. Keeps da hood safer. Now that they can fight, they don't use guns so much. Glad it worked, Marquis."

"Yeah. Keeps the cops outta da hood, too." He looks down for a second, then focuses on me again. "You don't like what we do, do you?"

"No, but I understand. We don't catch many breaks in this world, so we have to make our own sometimes. Not my place to judge what way you choose to try and get ahead of the game. Don't mean I have to like it."