The cigarette perched in my mouth was my only fuel on an empty night. My heels cut into the sidewalk and I pushed forward as fast as I could without running. The smoke wrapped around me, sticking to my hair and seeping through my coat. With every drag I could taste him, stale cigarettes, only missing a hint of wine or coffee.
I’d never been consumed by cigarettes, not when I’d first tried them back in middle school, and not when Erica and Carly waved them in my face. I’d join for smoke breaks for the purpose of not being alone, but I had no need for the rush, I hadn’t even felt it. Now I needed relief. I clinged to this piece of him and ripped through half the pack, aware of only my hands, which were busy protecting a flame from the October wind.
His smoking habits annoyed me at first. We stopped in the middle of Downtown crossing on our way to the harbor so he could roll a cigarette. He looked like a drug dealer, rolling a joint carelessly on a trash can amidst a mob of after work commuters. He liked to pick his own tobacco, it was cheaper and tasted better, he’d said. I’d just bought Marlboro Lights— the gold pack— because I didn’t know what else to do.
My footsteps echoed. For miles I sucked down smoke, oblivious of my direction, or the fact that I had not passed a single person, or that everything was growing black, and that West Roxbury was not the place to be lost, or alone, or walking at night. Images of him dressed in his three piece suit flashed in my mind. His hands folded elegantly over his chest, and his hair professionally groomed. He’d looked happier in scrubs, or his patched up jean jacket, with the longer parts of his hair sticking up in the front.
Smoking breaks were our escape during the week. I’d get away from patients, and the irrational anxieties spreading from my classmates. Sitting on the stoop, he’d walk over, cigarette hanging from his lips and an ABP coffee in each hand. “How many teeth ya pull today?” he’d ask, then I’d vent a little about everything and nothing all at once. And he’d listen.
I bought them at 7/11— the cigarettes. I was stalling. I’d looked every day for the time and date of the wake, knowing I had to go. Not for him, but for me—for closure, or for punishment, I wasn’t sure . Most of me wished I’d miss it through no fault of my own. Avoidance without guilt, but I would never be so fortunate. When I saw the announcement online, my stomach climbed up to my throat, a sign of the last turn on this rollercoaster ride.
Taking the orange line to Forest Hills, and the bus to West Roxbury brought me through a Boston I’d never seen before. I played his video singing “Closer” on repeat, wondering how things would be if I’d been around more earlier that summer. It felt toxic— us— and out of fear, or wisdom, or cowardice, I ran. His voice filled my headphones as I watched families hop on and off the bus. Eventually, I’d become numb to the sound of his voice, and the thought of never hearing it again.
When the bus pulled up in front of the funeral home I panicked. There was an hour left of the wake, and I sat on the curb staring at men come in and out in black suits and pea coats. I used the bathroom at 7/11 and called Krystal to tell her that I couldn’t go in. I couldn’t go in, I didn’t belong here. I was underdressed. His girlfriend was there, what if she knew about us dating? His mom knew— knew what? That I was the girl he’d been seeing— the one that wouldn’t give it a chance? That none of this surprised me? I paced outside, not cold, but shaking.
A month had passed since we’d sat on the harbor, watching the full moon light up the sail boats. We split a bottle of cheap wine, and he spoke of studying art in Germany. I shared hiking stories from Labor Day weekend. He told me about his recent suicide attempt, prompting our discussion on the meaning of life. “At the end of the day, when things are too hard, you always have a way out,” is what he explained. I countered with, “when you’re still here there is always a chance for happiness.” The conversation ended abruptly as he leaned in to kiss me. I couldn't and pushed him away. “Don’t you have a girlfriend?” I asked. He pulled his face back slightly, “it doesn't matter,” he responded. “I’ll leave her if you’ll be with me.” I said I couldn’t and got up, leaving without explanation.
The funeral home was small, just two rooms, one with wooden chairs and pews lined up in the style of a church, the other just an open space. It had all the usual things- a guest book, warm colored furniture, tacky pale wallpaper, and people, everywhere. I peeked into each room then ran to the bathroom, where I sat staring at the wall, trying to sort it all out. The open room was covered with poster sized pictures of him, as a child, with his family, from Instagram posts of just last week. Videos played of him singing cover songs on his guitar. It hit me that I fell nowhere on this timeline. He was a son, a brother, cousin, an uncle. The people around me were mourning a lifetime of grief, and who was I? I didn’t know what I was doing there at all.
The pew I sat on was mine alone. A handful of people sat before me, and a line of women sat along the wall approaching the casket. I didn’t inch closer or sit taller to see more clearly. He looked younger than I remembered, yet a grey tint set over him. His hair was unnaturally tamed and the bags under his eyes disappeared with all his life stresses. His mother stood and kneeled before him, softly singing what sounded like a lullaby. Her voice rose slowly until she was yelling at him, like I’m sure she’d done so many times. Yelling at him to wake up, wake up, wake up. I fled as abruptly as i had at the harbor, giving less than five minutes of my time.
My uber took me home the long way, tracing the river from start to finish. The banks of the Charles river in early June was the best place to be in Boston. We had laid there months earlier, feeling the sun's rebirth after a heavy winter. Music rose from his phone as we watched the water waver back and forth, free and clashing with everything in its way. He played “Broadripple is Burning,” shocked that I knew every word. Though a first date, it appeared like a reunion of a lifelong friendship. His playlist of “depressing songs” were the same ones my friends so readily discouraged. “Here’s one I think you’d like,” he said, as Aerosmith’s “Don’t Wanna Miss a Thing” came on. I was breathless, taken back by this feeling of invasion. He’d picked my favorite song from an infinite list of artists and genres. It was a part of me I didn't share, to keep as mine alone. A laugh came across my face, and I found bliss in the absurdity of it all.
“Hey, do you mind?” he asked, pulling out a cigarette and light. The grass tickled the back of my neck, and I wondered if it was ants seeking shelter on my bare skin. I looked up at him, trying to distinguish his face from the glare of the sun. I answered, “No, not at all.”
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