Fiction Fix Seventeen

So here we are. It’s dusk, and over the ledge, down the
hill, a train calls out like a dog missing its pack. He
peels back the cellophane, taps out a cigarette, offers
me one, but I shake my head. I’m not trying to quit
anymore, but sometimes I pretend. The way we still tell our
Others I love you after all these nights.
I am sitting on the low brick wall where he rests his elbows
and takes a long drag. He pinches his lips and exhales the
smoke like a cherub fountain.
“I’m a dragon,” he says, and I laugh a little.
“I’m the princess.”
It was spring when we met. The ground smelled wet—earth
thawing, bulbs splitting open and thrusting free—and I left
my car behind when I headed downtown so I could show my
body that the cold was gone and it was safe to leave the house
with bare skin and everything would be okay.
“I’m sorry,” he said when he opened the door. “You’re
Lauren’s friend, right? I forgot your name.”
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