2005-03-17 - 4:29 p.m.
We drove home in half cold and half heat, the window being cracked open a little so I could smoke. Marlboro menthol 100's; I type the name of them reverently...
like they were my God.
He says nothing for a little while, as we wind down pleasentville road, away from Dave, Mike, and the faintly dissapointing D&D session. My hands get cold faster than the rest of my body, so I inch my free right hand over to the heating vent.
just close the window close the window and put out the
Just when I think he might have fallen asleep from the gentle bump of the road, he says, "What started you smoking again? Was it something I did? Did I piss you off?"
I concentrate on the road and warming my right hand. "I don't know." Dismissively. I don't feel like psychoanalyzing myself tonight.
he's gonna ask it, here it comes, hes gonna
"Is this how it's going to be now? You're going to go back to smoking all the time?"
fuck.
He says it like it was such a dark chapter in our relationship. I went without for almost a year, you're not going to tell me that was our golden half-year because my breath didn't smell like fucking menthol.
But still, I want to tell him,
"No! No baby, it's not like that, I won't worry you anymore. I'd do anything for you!"
It's on the tip of my damn tounge, all I have to do is say it.
All I have to do is flick this damn ciggarette out the window. There lies the road, open and waiting for another fire stick to be cast upon it.
My hand falters, my tongue is tied.
please just say it just say it let him know you don't like it say you don't like being tied down to something say you HATE TO BE ADDICTED
Do I really like making him worry? Is that it?
There are times when I feel this strange satifaction, like sick churning in my belly, when I know he's worried about me.
I refrain from opening my mouth as, by then, I'm already psychoanalyzing myself like I promised I wouldn't. If I said anything now I'd have shoelaces permanently lodged in my esophagus.
why isn't he saying anything more now does he even care what happened
"I mean, I was really proud of you when you stopped smoking and all...
fuck!
"you can stop being proud now."
gasp! i say whaa??I should be mad. I should be wounded. I should tell him, no, I take that back, be proud of me some more. Be so proud of me you don't know what to do with all the overflow of pride you have for me. Be so proud it makes you sick. I flick the half finished stick out the window, almost unconsciously.