When I get drunk, the distance between my hand and face increases. I reach up to scratch my nose, it takes forever.
“How did you manage to poke yourself in the eye?” N asks.
One-eyed, I manage to light a cigarette. I hold the pack out to N. He shakes his head; he’s trying to quit.
“Complicated women,” I groan.
N frowns. “Cigarette women made you poke yourself in the eye?”
“No, no,” I shake my head, reminding myself to cut my nails later. “I always seem to fall for complicated women.”
N stares longingly at my cigarette. He snaps out of it. “So, you poked yourself in the eye?”
I nod. “I guess so.”
“Did it help?”
N sighs, “I know the feeling, I can’t help it neither.”
“Poking yourself in the eye?”
N scratches one finger with another, hard. “No, falling for complicated women, I mean.”
“Why do we do this to ourselves, then?” I ask the bottle of vodka between us.
He sighs at the cigarette between my fingers. “Some people jump out of airplanes,” he reminds me.
“Yes, but they have parachutes!”
N thinks about it. “Well some people jump out of airplanes with no parachute.”
“And what do they do?”
“Hope they land in a lake, I suppose,” he says, moving closer to my cigarette, breathing it in.
I snuff it out.
“No, that would still kill them, for sure.”
“Well, not if it’s a milk lake.”
“A milk lake?”
“Yeah, a milk lake, and pillows, a milk pillow lake.”
I open my damaged eye, blink a few times and smile.
“Yeah, a milk pillow lake. That’s what I need.”
N nods gloomily at the smoldering ash tray.
“Me too,” he decides.