Spring Fever / Some Things Never Change

Ascending from the dank tomb of the subway station, I squint at the white overcast sky. It is not a beautiful day. It is a day better forgotten. I fumble open a pack of cigarettes only to realize I don't have a lighter. Wedging the imminent stogey behind my ear, I make for the nearest bodega which, lucky for me, is within shuffling distance.

Minutes later I'm back on the sidewalk, flicking my new orange lighter and inhaling that first relaxing drag. The ashy taste brings me back to 8th grade, to my first cigarettes smoked rebelliously at the neighborhood park, the same park where I first made out with Donna, back when I was little more than nerves and wonder, timid and curious and attempting not to appear so.

I fiddle to remember how I liked to hold it. Everything feels unnatural, but my nerves are settling a little. I don't think I ever developed a smoking style. These days peer pressure is geared more towards quitting than lighting up. I've got to start standing my ground.

My head swims from the nicotine and I relish the gentle tilt of vertigo. What am I going to say to him? In my head, the conversation plays out like a scene in a movie: my steadfast accusations met by his guilty retorts, his attempts to shrug off the blame and my deft repudiations. He'll blame it on being drunk, and I'll tell him it doesn't matter. He'll claim ignorance, and I'll prove otherwise. He'll apologize and I'll stare him down, letting the weight of my silence crush him. The actual conversation will, of course, veer violently from any conceived trajectory, but my thoughts are otherwise unable to settle. I'm really no good at confrontation, but this one is necessary.

I take a deep breath and tuck my chin into my scarf against the cold gusts of city wind. As I approach the corner of Houston and Avenue B, I am nearly toppled over by two impish children squealing around the bend. They disappear into one of the anonymous entryways ensconced among the shabby Chinese joints and dollar stores.

I remember playing "boys chase girls" as a child, but I have no recollection of what I did when I caught them. I would sometimes cage them up in the jungle jim, but that only ever lasted as long as the damsel wished to remain a captive. Some things never change.

It's Spring and the trees protruding warily from these gum-spotted sidewalks have begun to sprout new leaves. I remove my non-smoking hand from my pocket and pass it through the downy tufts of foliage. The freshly sprouted leaves are still soft. They show no evidence of the harsh winter only recently abated. They shimmy in the wind, eagerly anticipating anything and everything. I rip a fistful of them and let them flutter to the ground a verdant confetti. I take a deep pull from my cigarette. Sometimes Fall comes early.

The coffee shop is across the street from me now and I can see Sam inside sitting by the window, head inclined, probably reading something. We have known each other for years and only recently began taking steps to become actual friends. His cherub face is completely relaxed. He could be meditating on a mountaintop, green eyes collecting light like koi ponds at dawn. It was a face I had trusted. My stomach is tight. My lungs feel tiny. I hate this.

He thinks I don't know. I wonder how long he would continue the charade if I let him. Would he ever tell me? Forty years from now, would we be old friends on rocking chairs, and would he lean over and say to me, "Christopher, I'm not a good friend."? Would I have secretly betrayed him by then? Would I smile and tell him that we were even?

Part of me wants to keep walking, just leave this all behind, ignore him out of existence, but I know it's not that easy. I take a final puff of my stoge and catch a wisp of smoke in my eyes causing them to tear up slightly. I honestly don't know that I will be able to forgive him. It's a shame, really, but trust, once broken, is a tenuous repair.