CECE, DISRESPECTFULLY | ✓

33: NEW SKIN

            It's snowing again because this city can't decide what weather it wants to have. Well I suppose snow is more pleasant than rain. I have to shield my rollie from it so the tobacco don't get too damp to light which leaves both my hands exposed to the cold.

Maybe the person who invented gloves weren't completely delusional. One more gust of wind and I might lose a finger.

As if sensing her arrival, I look up just as Diwa slams the car door behind her. She stomps up to me in new platform boots and, through the car window, her mother's vulture glare spears through us.

'She found out that I didn't spend the holidays at the library,' Diwa explains without greeting. 'I swear, it's like mums have nowt better to do than gossip about each other's kids.'

Though her voice gets more forceful as her irritation grows, her words fade under the sound of (don't let it–) my heartbeat (–get too fast). The hairs on the back of my neck stand.

Someone was watching.

Someone is watching.

Did you think you were safe?

There are always crumbs of surveillance stuck in the linings of my pockets, eyeballs camouflaged into pebbles, always watching.

Pupils pass. All their stares scythe to me. Watching.

Diwa leans against the fence, looking at me expectantly. She wants to me to say summat. Has she asked a question or is she after a green light to continue her rant? She was saying summat about her mum.

My ribs seem stubborn to ensnare themselves around my lungs and my tongue's gone numb which will make my response clumsy even if I figure out what to say. I have enough experience with my thoughts dominating human conversations to know that usually the best way to go undetected (she'll find out) is to agree.

So I nod and say, 'Yeah, she is proper mardy.'

Diwa hums to confirm. 'She reckons you're a bad influence.'

I return the fag to my mouth. 'Can't say she's wrong.'

'I reckon she just don't want me to have any queer friends. Couldn't have people validate my identity or I might actually lie myself.'

I flick the ash off my rollie and try to come up with summat comforting to say. Nowt comes to mind. Instead, I dig my free hand into my pocket to extract an enamel pin. I hold it out to her.

'Happy Christmas. I shoplifted this for you.'

Diwa stares at the pin. It's in the shape of an award ribbon with a heart in the middle instead of a number, made in the colours of the lesbian flag. Subtle enough that the average idiot won't think owt of it while being immediately recognisable to any queer person.

Her fingers approach the cardboard rectangle it's pinned to as if she's afraid her touch will sink through it. Once it's finally in her hold, I push off the fence, dropping my cigarette butt to the ground.

Her lips part but I cut over her. 'Well, I'll fuck off then.'

Her misted eyes fly open. Panic brightens her features as she scans mine in search of understanding, which only takes a split second to fall onto her.

'Sorry. I were just complaining. I still want us to be friends.' Another weak laugh gusts from her, this one genuine. 'Fuck my parents, as you say. I do everything to be perfect and they don't even notice I exist so what's the point?'