cigarette

Everyday after school was the same. The routine never changed. I would wait patiently for the 8th period bell to ring, then staggered slowly to my rusty, old locker on the second floor to get my journal and my copy of poems I collected the night before. Then I would walk off the school property and sit down on the sidewalk right outside of school and read the first line of the first poem on top of the pile. It was Whitman today. "Among the men and women the multitude..." I would stop after the first line and wait for someone to pass. I would wait each day for that person.

She is the definition of cute. Today her hair was curly or wavy, whatever you want to call it. Her brown hair waved in the wind as she tried to fix the summer scarf around her neck. God, her legs are great. She was wearing white shorts and blue boat shoes today. I mean, really. Could you not describe a more perfect girl for me as she fixed her red blouse and tried to find something in her bag. Everyday I would see a different version of her pass me as she walked home from school. Same shit. I would read the first line. Look up. Be a creeper. Finish the poem. Walk home. My after school life in full right there.

I don't... Fuck. Is she coming over here? Did I do something wrong? I don't know. Do I look -


"Do you have a cig I can bum off you?," she said as I tried to take the situation in.

"Yes, I do."

I passed her one of the last of my cigarettes and looked for my lighter.

"I don't smoke really. Just a really bad day and I need to calm down..." she said as I watched her sit next to me and take a short puff from her fag.

"I don't have an excuse, really," I said. I had nothing else to say.

"It's okay. Don't worry about it. What are you doing out here anyway?" she said.

"Just reading some poems. That's what lame angsty teenagers do, right?" I said.

She laughed and I couldn't help but smile. I am awkward, by the way. I need to stop reading into things. I made a funny. She isn't going to fall instantly in love with you, Pres.

"What are you reading, angsty teenager?" she said.

"Whitman. He was probably angsty, too. He was from Long Island. Shit, especially because he was from Huntington," I said

"I have family in Huntington. They are so nice. How could you?"

"I... I'm sorry. I didn't mean to..."

"I'm joking. They are douche bags," she said as she guffawed.

"You fooled me," I said.

"Got over it and finish your angsty poetry, kid," she said.

I finished my cigarette and put it out and started a new one. She stared aimlessly at the sky as I tried to take in this wonderful moment. I read the second line of the poem and I absorbed not an ounce of angst.

"Do you walk home?," she said as she tapped the ash off the end of her almost finished cigarette.

"I do, actually," I said. "I live three blocks from the school. With a house with a cherry door on Washington Avenue. The irony kills."

"No way! You don't live on Washington. There is no way you live a block away from me and we haven't formally met before. Hi, I'm Haley. Nice to meet you."

I shook her hand and it took me a second to actually think of a response for some reason. "Oh. Hi, I'm Preston, but people call me Pres," I said.

"I like your name. Do you read poetry often," she said.

"Not really. I've just got into it recently. I usually read novels and plays. I just finished reading A Separate Piece for like the fifth time yesterday."

"I loved the book. Everyone in my class hated that book. It was pleasant and he wasn't gay. If I hear that again! I don't know what I would do," she said.

She looked so cute when she was flustered. She checks looked as if they painted gently with rose as the base.

"My sentiments exactly," I said as we both finished our cigarettes and put them out.

"Well, Pres. I've got to call my boyfriend then go to work, so I need to start walking now. Wanna come along?," she said.

"Sure," I said. Of course someone this great has a boyfriend. How stupid of me to believe I had a chance. This always happens. Her boyfriend better be amazing. Shit.

"Tell me more about Whitman. We can be angsty teenagers together next time and maybe read him together if I start liking him," she said.

We walked. I talked. She listened.