I love the smell. I love the night. I love the breeze. I love the grown-up boy I’m with.
I hate the sight. I hate his addiction. I hate my helplessness.
For once, I don’t say anything. I merely perch with him on the secluded wall and revel in our invisibility. Well, the burning joint is visible; in fact, it’s the only thing that stands out from a distance in the darkness. But I don’t ask him to stub it out.
He was smoking up when I walked outside. He didn’t notice me until I waved my arms frantically before his unfocused eyes. Then, he tried hiding it- as if I were incapable of noticing the burning weed. He’s always been a little stupid that way.
I rolled my eyes- he sensed it more than he saw it because it was hard to see much that night. He appeared a little hopeful and completely disbelieving when I waved my hand slightly. Hesitatingly, he brought the hand that enclosed his addiction in front of himself and raised his eyebrows at me. I shrugged, and, still incredulous, he took a miniscule puff.
I breathed in and coughed slightly. He grabbed me in a one-armed hug. Well, he tried to use both his arms, but I ordered him to move the hand with the burning joint away from me. I didn’t want that klutz to set fire to me, after all.
So, we hugged for a long time. It felt nice. My arms fit around his neck quite comfortably after I stretched upwards on tip-toes. His arm folded around my back.
He hugs me like he’ll never, ever leave me. It feels good. It feels safe and makes me feel vulnerable. We don’t talk much. We just hug. That’s what’s special about our relationship- we don’t need words to communicate. Communication sans words is surprisingly garrulous.
He let go first because ash was scalding his fingers. I sat down and he sat beside me.
“Why aren’t you stopping me today?”
“Don’t feel like it.”
“I love you.”
“You’d better.”
“I kissed her.”
“I know.”
“Who told you?”
“I just know.”
“Psychic freak.”
“You’re the freak.”
“Who told you?”
“I’m your best friend. Do I need to be told?”
“Touché.”
We sat in silence for a few more minutes. He finished his joint but didn’t light a second one. He turned and smiled at me instead. He was really happy. So was I.
“By the way, you’re a lucky guy. She likes you too.”
“Did she tell you?”
“I’m a psychic freak, remember?”
He laughed.
“She’s a wonderful kisser, by the way.”
“I know.”
“Sure you do.”
“I dated her, remember?”
He looked slightly startled, but he wasn’t very surprised. Best friends usually like the same type, and we’re no exception.