"That one afternoon, I kissed you. In the middle of the street, where a white truck zoomed past our connected lips. And boy, it caused problems we couldn't have seen, but wasn't it also amazing?"
...
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"Hey, Paislee."
Two words coming from Sheila that would usually excite me, now just make me feel weird in the gut. I didn't rush to go over to her and hug her or gush at the fact that I missed talking to her for a few days. But the last time I saw her, all it did was bring back emotions from my teen years and make me reconsider a bond that was being tested by my own mother.
I wanted to tell Sheila how I really felt. That's what real friends do, right? Communicate? That question rung through my head because honestly, I didn't know if I wanted to communicate. All the times I had tried to talk to people like my parents, my words got twisted and somehow I needed up being the envious, malicious villain. I just didn't want that to happen with Sheila and me.
That would mean mama had officially won.
"Hey Sheila," I responded. Looking up at her as I stood on the steps to her house. "May I come in?"
Sheila looked at me weirdly before laughing. "Yeah, of course! Why are so formal?"
I got more nervous thinking about confrontation. Deen always fussed about me getting over my anxiety of confrontation. But it was different when he was telling me and would leave me with a kiss on the forehead and a hug, compared to now in person.
"Just habit I guess honestly. Too much time around my elders," I said.
"Because you're always stuck up in the house. Never having fun, dancing at clubs, or getting free drinks from men," Sheila exclaimed playfully.
We were in her kitchen now and I tried to soothe the thoughts of my mother as I looked Sheila in the face. She rummaged through her cabinets looking for something until she pulled out a pack of cigarettes. I rolled my eyes discreetly. I hated smoking with a passion.
She lit the cancer-stick and took a drag of her cigarette before exhaling. Leaving the smoke to linger throughout the kitchen space.
"Sheila," I whined shortly.
"What? A cig won't hurt me or you. If anything, you need it the most," Sheila sassed back.
"You know smoking is bad is for your body, and no, I don't need one."
She shrugged and continued smoking. "Everyone smokes cigs. Even your sweet, little friend Deen."
"No he doesn't," I said quickly, realizing that I had never asked him.
"Everyone who was with people from Robert to Deen overseas all have smoked a cigarette. Robert said they used to smoke cigs all the time because they could. It would pass the time, give 'em something to do."
