I’m holding crystal light water enhancers because I know you love them and I figure you’re dehydrated. I need help. It’s been a while since I’ve seen you. My twisted theory: gifts are the lifeline to keep us going. DVDs to add to your collection. Vintage shirts that are too small for me and look better on you. Mint vapes. Sugar free red bulls. He likes this stuff, I think.
Before I ring your bell, I’m filled with nostalgia from the stench of rotten berries on your sidewalk. I almost slip, but it feels good to be in touch with my adrenaline. I use the concrete steps to catch my fall and to scrape the slime off my shoes. I’m reminded of the times you’d pick me up in your boyish blue prius. Your eyes were glassy like you’d have so much to say, but instead you’d play classical music. Ask for hits of my vape. I liked sharing spit with you. Even secondhand-oral-fixation spit.
I don’t know if I can give an objective analysis with these fucking crystal lights in my hand. Does he think that I think I’m buying his affection? Forget the enhancers.
My attention shifts to the power box out front. I now notice it’s torn open with wires sparking onto your lawn. The first thing I ask you is, “What’s wrong with your box?” You stutter, “A kid drove into it. Drunk. Dad’s the property manager, so they aren’t gonna do anything.”
“You gonna report it?”
You ignore the question and look down to the crystal lights poking out of my pocket.
I chuckle, “Oh, these are for me.” I want to treat you with some dignity now.