I'm a Stranger in a Wasteland
California is burning through me. I’m a stranger in a wasteland, going everywhere but nowhere in particular, punching holes in the linings of my sneakers, drenching tank tops in Black Opium-scented sweat, melting small slivers of my body off my body and leaving them as keepsakes on the sidewalks. I was here once. I existed.
The air always hangs low, a centimeter above my body, a mild yet persistent suffocation. Like being wrapped in saran wrap. I lean against the balcony railing, rolling the cigarette back and forth in between my fingers like a mini-skateboard. The orange embers at the end are a brighter, hotter version of tonight’s sky. It’s nearly six p.m. and all the baby blue has dispersed, leaving behind a stretch of smokey, mellow orange.
There’s a rather intense game of chicken going on below. The water splashes outside the outline of the pool, leaving the grey stone covered in amorphous spots of water and the blue-and-white striped lounge chairs soaking wet. The scent of chlorine swims up my nose and awakens my sleepy body. Mhm. I close my eyes, leaning further against the railing. A supercut of chlorine-coated memories is about to start playing inside of me when I hear a steady two-tap knock at the door. “It’s open!” I shout behind me.
Colin walks in, two cups of coffee in hand, and sets them on the dresser. “I realized that I didn’t ask you if you drink coffee. I just assumed.”
I don’t drink coffee, but every time I go to a new state, I find myself wanting to become a different person. Maybe here I smoke and drink coffee and introduce myself to strangers like Colin.
“I don’t drink coffee, but thank you anyway.”
Or maybe I don’t do those things.
“Sorry,” he blushes, a warm red flush spreading from his cheeks down his neck. He’s about two weeks post-buzzcut and his blond hair has grown in fast.
He’s beautiful, like most other people in Los Angeles, but what I have found most beautiful about him has been his shyness — and his sincerity. The way he allows silence to permeate a room and makes no attempts to push her away; instead, he lets her take up more and more space if she so wants. Or, the way his fingers will tentatively graze mine, testing the waters, before he wraps his pinky around my pinky — and then he’ll steal a glance to see if I’m feeling how he’s feeling, but by the time I catch it, he’s already looking down at his feet as if he’s been caught red-handed, a smile spreading wide across his face. Or, the way he’ll doodle on napkins when we’re at breakfast and lunch, and when I ask him what he’s drawing he won’t show me, but then a day later I’ll find the napkins tucked inside my shorts pocket or at the bottom of my purse. There’s a boyishness to him, an innocence to him. Like he grew up but his view of the world didn’t.
“I didn’t know you smoked. You don’t strike me as the type.”
The type. What type am I? Suddenly I want to know what I am inside of his body. Am I a tropical rain shower flowing through his veins or a blistering snowstorm? Does his stomach leap into his chest when I smile or is my smile nothing more than an everyday occurrence to him? Am I the first person he wants to call when something good happens or the last person when something bad happens? What am I to him? Who am I to him?
“I don’t smoke,” I grin.
He’s confused, but a curious smile grows on his face. He’s trying to place me. I like watching people try to figure me out, but especially him. I like watching the real-time Tetris in their eyes. I offer him the cigarette, “But you can have it.”
“Oh, no, I’m good,” he waves his hands in front of him and moves towards me, pulling me into a hug. I burrow my face into his neck. He tells me, “I don’t smoke either,” but the faint trace of smoke trapped in his t-shirt says otherwise.
I smile. “What a coincidence.”
