I slid down the wall like a strip of aged wallpaper succumbing to the heavy hand of gravity and came to rest on the worn seat of my jeans. The hard tiled floor in Bonnie’s kitchen was so cold it burned me through a hole in my left pocket.
I stared at a chair pushed out from beneath a tilted table, wondering why I hadn’t sat there.
I waited, drumming my fingers on the gritty tile, waiting for Bonnie and her ma to run out of words.
It might be a long damn wait.
I lit up a cigarette and cuffed a pant leg for my ash. I pulled in a lung full and then fouled the clear picture in front of me with gray. I sucked air through my nicotine stained teeth.
And drummed my fingers.
The words finally die and in a minute Bonnie’s bare feet appear next to my drumming fingers. Staring at the chipped paint on her nails I sucked more air through my yellowed ivories.
“Why do you do that?” She asked. Apparently, she had some leftover words.
I wondered what habit she was referring to and tapped ash into my cuff.
And she says, “I guess you got to go now.”
I took a drag and looked into her averted eyes.
“I guess your ma won the argument.”
“No,” Her eyes found me. “I did.”