I light a cigarette. The night is molded from freshly blown up beach balls and marinating meats. It is the cusp of summer. Maybe summer; the first night.
Y smells like me. She is wearing my sweatshirt.
It is a Friday night. A wild night. We are on the balcony; above it all.
Y, sitting on my lap, leans back. Some woman, somewhere, shouts, “la, la, la!” into the night. It sounds like she is stumbling. Y takes a breath and sighs.
“When I was in the hospital it was too warm.”
I try to smoke around her, willing her not to move.
“Like this?” I ask.
“No, inside, then someone, somewhere, opened a window. It wasn’t summer, but it smelled like summer. The whole place.”
I snuff out my cigarette and put my arms around her.
“That’s nice,” I tell her shoulder, gently.
“Mhm. I wrote a story while I was there.”
“About windows, and summer.”
“Want to tell me about it?”
She shrugs, “it wasn’t much of a story. It was just about how I feel when summer air comes in through a window. It brings back a lot of memories. All those people I spent my summers with. They were there with me in that room. I don’t know. It felt like being there again, living it again.”
I nod. “I know what you mean.”
I can feel her body smile, sadly. “I don’t know if you do.”
I kiss her neck anyways. I light another cigarette. She turns in my lap to stare at it. She rolls her eyes.
“You smoke too much.”
I look down at the inundated ashtray and nod. “I do. I like it. It will probably be what kills me.”
“Bleh, boring. Boring way to go,” she tells me.
I shrug. “Meh, you never know. Maybe I’ll die tomorrow.”
She looks at the building across, a few lights are on.
“Or maybe I’ll kill you,” she says. She is holding my hand as she says it, making it seem like not so bad of an idea.
“Maybe,” I tell her.
She turns, she puts her face against mine. She holds it there. I drop my cigarette on the ground, hold her close.
Someone, somewhere, closes the window.