I turn my head to blow smoke through the iron bars of a fence where we stand talking about language and politics and life's bullshit tragedies. Some bicyclist whizzes by too close on the sidewalk. Would have served him right if I had blown smoke in his face. He’s supposed to ride that shit on the road. Whatever. Pretty sure I’m supposed to be smoking at home in my closet where I don’t bother another soul with my vile habit, yet I take another drag. Another day I might’ve exhaled toward the whizzer on purpose, maybe even stepped into his path accidentally just to be an ass and remind him why he shouldn’t ride so close to the edge.
I also tell Manny’s friend about everything that came after. About finding out I can only take care of me. About finding out how much I had forgotten and how much I have yet to learn. About being me.
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