It smells like fall again. Like cool, spicy, bittersweet decay.
“Pretend you’re dead,” I offered, shrugging. “Fall down and pretend you’ve been shot.”
She shook her head. “No one’s ever suggested that!” she laughed.
Do I like ginger-scented or ginger-flavored things? Heck no. But he did. I’d bought it for him. I wore it because he liked the smell of it, and the taste of it on my lips.
I grimaced. How many times, and in how many ways, had I compromised my authenticity to please him?
I believed that with myself, marijuana, and an army of beverages all working together as a united front, we could defeat the illness.
The streets smelled like weed, urine, and – sometimes – laundry detergent. I stepped across them quickly.
“So do you like… wanna smoke weed?” he offered, shrugging cutely. I’ll mention here that marijuana has been legalized in Washington. I remembered my out-of-mind experience in Denver and frowned. “Oh, I so appreciate you asking, but it gives me such anxiety—-” I paused. “But how about we meet for coffee tomorrow morning instead?” I offered brightly.
I pause, realizing that “her” is Josie. Josie, who looks to be maybe 6 months old and who has a blue bow strapped around her forehead and an adorable pink-and-blue owl shirt on.
I love him, and he doesn’t speak to me. I love him, and he doesn’t hold my hand. I love him, and he doesn’t dance with me. And I love him.