PROTZFALIA

“How are you feeling?”

“Like shit.”

I took another drag off the cigarette.

The crackling of the burning paper and tobacco flitted around the otherwise silent night air as the pulse of heat warmed my fingers. I held the smoke I knew was bad for me in my lungs for a moment, then expelled the cloud through my nose.

I continued to stare out into the night, but I could see her sympathetic smile. Could see how the curls of her hair bounced as she shifted in her seat. Could feel her green eyes watching me.

I took a deep breath.

The subtle scent of Marlboro Menthols that lingered on her breath and in her hair almost overwhelmed me.

“I knew that already,” she said. “But how are you feeling?”

“Like a pumpkin when its guts are scooped out, just to have a knife plunged into its flesh to carve out a silly face. I’ll put on that silly face. Make sure everybody’s laughing and having a grand old time. It feels good, you know? It really does. It’s real. Just like how the candle inside the pumpkin is real. But once it’s out, it’s out. The pumpkin rots, gets thrown out, and forgotten about until it’s time to make a new jack-o-lantern.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I know.”

I looked down at the black ash of the finished cigarette, then at the empty chair beside me.

I flicked the cigarette butt into the darkness, and went inside.