She keeps a lock of hair in her pocket/ She wears a cross around her neck/ Yes, the hair is

from a little boy/ And the cross is someone she has not met/ Not yet
She fingered the top of her Budlight bottle; crisp lime wafted to her nose, and she inhaled
the strong scent with the aftermath of yeast and ferment. Seated in the front porchs loveseat,
she overlooked the land that she had learned to call her own. Weeping willows underneath a
starry night, overtop a lush landscape. The moon was effervescent atop to the world, and there
was a rhythm to the night that rocked the girl in a smooth constant. buzz.
Gimme a smoke, bitch. Her friend dropped out the screen door, drunk. The friend was
on her fourth shot, second beer, third joint. The girl looked at the friend with a half-smile, and
pulled out the box of Camels- shaking them in disappointment.
Yeah, bitch, but well have to take a trip to the store after we smoke. Were bout out.
The girl tossed the treat to the friend, it dropped- the friend laughed and scrambled across the
porch like a drunken snake after a mouse. Finally reaching it, the friend leaned onto the wood
deck and sprawled out like she was working herself into the California King bed the girl held
inside.
Fuckin sucks what happened to Dean. The friend spoke in between puffs.
The girl nodded in silent agreement. Looked in the pack, and figured the conversation
the friend was about to embark on warranted one, hell- probably two, of the last four cigarettes in
the box. Two outside, one in the car for her, one in the car for the friend. Twenty awaited them at
the twenty-four hour Swiftys down the road.
They said he was less than a fuckin mile from his house. His fuckin house. He was
almost fuckin. home.
The girl stood up, hung the Camel out her lips the shade of passion, and leaning over the
railing; nicotine hitting her lungs, her breath fighting for the sweet mixture of oxygen and C
fuckin Oh. Her eyes were fixated on the weeping willow that rooted itself into the ground, to the
heritage of the land. Her mind was elsewhere- she saw a flipbook in her mind of her and Dean
underneath the willow. From the beginnings of her memory, to a year ago. From playing tag
over cooties, to swapping adoration over kisses. From peach rings to nicotine. From jukebox
melodies to joints.
Its not fair. But Im pretty sure weve been taught that our entire fucking life. The girl
lit another. Two more left; car ride had their name on them. She witnessed the end of the
cigarette curl as the flame hit- taste, smell, sight, touch, all of her senses were ignited like that
stick.
He was such a good fuckin guy. The friend was getting teary. Her smoke fell out of
her fingers, but she didnt realize. It rolled alongside her- still lit and smoking.
Would it have been any less sad if he hadnt been? The girl scrambled for her keys in a
passive anger- leaving the friend on the porch. She wordlessly got in the Caddy and texted the
friends boyfriend: Make sure she doesnt die on my porch. Gone to get cigs.
His response came instantaneously: K. You good to drive?
The girl didnt respond; she wasnt okay to drive, and she wasnt about to lie to him.
But, hell, she wasnt okay to live. What was she supposed to do about that?
She drove the Caddy the speed limit, flicked her turn signal at a reasonable distance, and
willed herself to remember not to go left of center. She paid the Indian man at Swiftys $5.23
(highway robbery), and on the way home lifted her black curls into a bun on the top of her head.
Arriving back home, she saw the friends boyfriend on her front porch- joint dangling off
his lower lip. Killing the engine and gliding out of the car, she grabbed the smokes and perched
herself on the steps.
She aint takin Deans death too well. Been cryin all night. I get its hard, but he
paused to take a hit of the sweet hash and then a sip of bourbon to wash it down with. Damn,
he finished.
The girl lifted herself up, grabbed the joint out of his mouth, and sat down beside him.
I thought itd be you wed have to watch out for tonight. He left the sentence open,
inviting the girl to the conversation in which she didnt want any part of.
Ya know, my Granny told me a while back that she has three things to deal with her
pain. She takes an Ibuprofen when she gets up, a pack of Misty Pink through the day, and the
good Lord when she calls on Him. I figure, for me, two outta three aint bad. The girl lit a
Camel as if to prove her point and offered the boy the pack.
The boy smiled, taking one.
Well, I better get in here and check on her. Thanks, he remarked, holding up the
cigarette at the end of his sentence and then placing it behind his ear.
The girl nodded, continued puffing and picked up her phone. Sliding her thumb down
the screen, she stopped on the Black Crowes. They sang to her the rest of the night alongside the
lullaby of beer, smokes, and uninvited memories of the past.

Tell me your troubles and doubts/ Giving me everything inside and out and/ Love's strange so
real in the dark/ Think of the tender things that we were working on/ Slow change may pull us
apart/ When the light gets into your heart, baby/ Don't You Forget About Me/ Don't/ Don't/
Don't/ Don't/ Don't You Forget About Me
The girl was perched on top a bar stool, long legs hanging off the side, crossed over one
another while she traced the outline of her glass over and over again. Her black nails, long and
sharp as if waiting for a chance to attack, measured the circumference of the cup in units of
promise. How many will it take tonight? The bartender nodded at her, and she killed drink
numero quadro- slid it over to him and silently implored him to make it stronger this go round.
The drink almost refilled itself, he had it slid back to her so quickly. The Whiskey Sour
lingered on her breath; strong and stout, recoiling and reinvigorating. The girl appreciated the
duality in her booze; hell, the girl appreciated the duality in everything. She lazily scanned the
bar- she knew it better than anyone else there. Reminiscing back on when she bartended at this
dump, she half-smiled when recollecting the shitty tips that she brought home and the priceless
conversations that never left the building. Nodding at the bartender to watch her place, she
sauntered outside- already had her Camel lit before she was outside. The girl didnt waste time.
Taking the first puff, she held the stick like a joint (her hand making an almost 3, thumb
and pointer finger in a circle with the rest of her phalanges relaxed and outspread) and visualized
the magic working through her system. Down her esophagus, past her chest, through her heart,
and into her lungs. Immediately her shoulders dropped and her whole body relaxed. Damn, she
thought, dependency suits me. Squatting onto the concrete, she elongated herself while reclining
onto the brick wall; with her legs she made a P, right leg bent and left leg outstretched.
Alternating breaths of smoke with air, she let the music inside orchestrate her body; her heart
matched the tempo, and her blood was pumping as a conductor- regulating the rhythm and sound
within and outside her being. She was a sight- black curls spread around her shoulders, black
nails framing her smoke, red lips tempting anyone to near, and a black leather jacket that warned
anyone of nearing too much. Her ring finger boasted a sugar skull; it fitted the girl to flaunt a
beautiful decay on the finger that represented an undying love. Fuck it.
After a song and a half, she threw the Camel off to the side after using it down to the
filter and walked back to her drink. Opening the door to the old biker bar, she was doing the
math in her head as to how many she needed to drink before shed be out of this fuckin world-
six more, tops. Hearing her boots trumpet her entrance on the hardwood floor, she kept a
consistent rhythm with the jukebox. That was, until sight of The Boy stopped her dead in her
tracks. She hadnt seen him in six months, and that was six months too fuckin long or not
fuckin long enough- either way you wanted to look at it. To describe the relationship between
her and The Boy would take eons; she, like her drink, equal parts loved him (Whiskey) and hated
him (Sour). He was seated right beside her spot. She knew it was intentional. That was her
spot; that was her drink. He wasnt an idiot. On the inside she was running through expletives
like a marathoner through the end ribbon, and as much as she wanted the opposite to be true- on
the outside she was shaking.
What the fuck you doing here? She attempted to smoothly hop on the stool, but she
knew he would see right through her. She killed the drink after her salutation, crushing the
leftover ice against her teeth.
Saw the Caddy when I passed by, figured Id get a beer and see how ya been. The Boy
spoke evenly and unflexed, matching her by sipping his lager.
Uh-huh. Ive been fine. The bartender hadnt refilled her glass yet. The fucker.
I saw about Dean The girl sighed, she didnt want to have this fucking conversation.
Especially with The Fucking Boy.
He continued, I didnt really know what to say to ya. Fuck, I still-
She cut him off. Then dontfuckingsayanything. Youve made it pretty damn
clear that you dont care about my life. So just keep that up and well be fine. She threw two
twenties down on the table as a tip, and hurried away with tears in her eyes and a Camel in
between her fingers.
She had almost made it to the Caddys haven before she felt a hand around her left arm;
The Boy was once again pulling her into his hemisphere. Fuckin A. Tensing her right hand, she
almost whirled around and slapped him in the face- six fucking months propelling her force; she
was half a beat too slow and The Boy anticipated it. He stopped her, and she hated him- hated
him for knowing what she was going to do before she done it, hated him for showing up at her
place, hated him for marring every memory she had, and hated him for fucking acting like he
gave two shits about anything other than himself.
Stop. The words rolled off his tongue like a bow across a violin- a beautiful mix of
purity and fluidity with a sharp stab of demand.
Her emerald eyes were wide and soaked, but she let him negotiate the words right out of
her mouth and the urgency right out of her step. She wasnt a woman to stop what she was
doing, but dear God he was the man that could make her slow the fuck down. The Boy was
immaculate. Towering over her, his brown hair matched his eyes with a strong nose and jaw; he
had to have some heritage that traced back to a Roman god. He wore his leather jacket with dark
denim, and the girl inhaled his familiar scent- pine and oil, with some unknown base of vanilla
thrown in there.
Stop. He repeated, and then lit a Camel. He was the one who got her started on those
damn things, and the two combined together were going to be the death of her. He offered her
one, and eagerly took it as they leaned on the hood of her Caddy.
Whatre your plans for the night? He implored of her over the nicotine and sky whose
moon was overtaking the sun.
Nothing past getting drunk enough to pass out.
He waited a beat before speaking, Ive got the hotel for the night. Youre coming. He
didnt leave it a question- he knew her answer, he didnt need to waste tone with the
interrogative.
She wordlessly walked away from him, opened the door to the Caddy, and turned the
key. All the while, the only stability she was hanging onto was hanging in between her top and
lower lip- and damn, it was even fading fast.
The one on Delaware? He nodded as he walked towards his motorcycle.
Shifting the initial gears, she headed that way- faintly hearing Simple Minds in the
background and she spoke aloud:
Dont worry, I couldnt if I tried.

Let your soul shine/ It's better than sunshine/ It's better than moonshine/ Damn sure better
than rain/ Lord now people don't mind/ We all get this way sometimes/ Gotta let your soul
shine, shine till the break of day.
The girl was curled around the wrap-around sofa; a French Vanilla coffee resonated on
her mouth as the scent of Limoncello filled the air with its three wicks holding base to individual
flames flitting and filling the room. She was content. All the walls, all the silent resolve, and all
the inabilities to connect to another human fuckin being were out the window- they drifted away
along the air, and for the first time in a while the girl wasnt caught up on Dean or The Boy; she
didnt long for the whisper of the smolder off the Camel; she didnt ache for the relaxation of
Jack D; she didnt feel hitched to the dependency of another. No, she was fine. Like the weather
outside, she was neither hot nor cold- her hair up and her clothes off, she was connected to the
universe in a way she had never been before.
Halfway watching Sons of Anarchy, halfway reading Faulkner- she was halfway herself
and halfway the person she was meant to be. The girl recognized that evidently she would grow
up, evidently she would mature, and evidently she would find a better place for her in this world
than where she was at right now. Today was one of those days she saw her future, and was
shakily walking around from her present. As if on cue, she rolled herself off the sofa and made
her way onto the porch. Gazing at the weeping willows, their branches seemed sturdier in the
break of day. Settling into the old rocking chair, she gently rocked herself back and forth to an
imaginary requiem of her soul. Vaguely, she thought about going inside to fry broccoli and
onions- but then quickly dismissed the notion because, well she didnt want to get up. The land
she was on had been her fathers, and his before that- all the way back to five generations. It was
beautiful, and it was strong. In a way that almost grounded the decades after it, the land called
her to it.
Raising out of the chair she, in her bareness, approached that weeping willow. Unknown
tears brought to her eyes, she covered herself with the tree and cuddled herself into the ground.
She could stay that like that forever, and she might would have. The scent of the morning dew
bathed her in a cleanse, and the sound of the blackbird above her settled her mind into a tempo.
Curls merging into the foliage, and body melting into the Earth she felt a peace that never before
enveloped her. The day transfixed itself into dusk, and she finally departed from the shelter.
Walking up through her steps, and into her door, she caught the fleeting melody of the Allman
Brothers off a passing carrier. Entering the house, her soul shone.