Thursday, March 7, 2013

The Chat

 Not my photo
I lit a cigarette and smoked it on the bridge, I threw the butt on the ground beside the Tim Hortons mug and the paper towel that was flying around. There’s no one hired in the winter to clean up the dirt. In the summer, because there might be lost tourists who abandon the pretty towns and come here, people with yellow vests pick up the garbage, I usually see them once in the summer.

The boys bum a cigarette from me and smoke beside me.

“Have you told your parents yet?” I asked the one with the curly black hair and the mustache.

He took a drag and shook his head. “Mom likes the people on TV, but I’m not like that.”

His friend piped up, “They liked you yesterday, they’ll like you today. Just like me.”

I lit another one, “There’s a magic you will always have.” I said “The magic of knowing who you are.”

“I had to work hard at it.” Said the guy who seemed to look like a child but knew what I was talking about. "You?"

“I have depression and had to find myself through the pieces that no one else wanted to see. That i didn't want to see.”

“People will want to see me as I am.” He said “they don’t have a choice, I’m pretty cool."
"What about your mothers plans to have a daughter in law." I asked. Seeing that look in his eyes that told me he was putting on more of a front than he wanted me to know.
"That's what I'm afraid of."

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