Stained
The masses of erudite young things huddled in white plastic lawn chairs cast sideways glances in my direction, their voices not audible over the car engine but, clearly, expressing surprise at my appearance. The Lexus in front of me drives onward in a start and stop motion as its driver gets a high-five from one of the hangers-on in front of the hookah bar. It stops completely, leaving me with a mostly direct view through the front window of the place.
I pause and imagine myself, smoke curling in wispy streams around my head, smiling like an idiot at the pop-pop-pop noise of the basins around me while feeling lightheaded from the lack of oxygen. Two lithe young girls dressed in mostly-black, one reclining and one leaning forward with her hands on her knees, take turns with the pipe. The seated one continually twirls the threaded sheath of the hose between two already nicotine-stained fingers -- the other mimes a fainting spell and the two laugh and pet each others' hair, grinning. A lanky guy of about 19 sits across from us, watching the girls; it's not hard to sense an adolescent fantasy lighting onto his brain. He visibly ogles them and they obviously notice the attention. A whisper, a giggle... The girl leaning forward sits back and allows the reclining girl to wrap arms around her, the pipe hose still twitching between her fingertips.
I watch passively, nonplussed. There's nothing special about tonight: The girls in black, the intense smell of ash, the occasional rush of conversation from the benches and couches around me... even the young, pimply dude with a boner and no ability to control his hormones. I inhale sharply. The smoke cuts like little knives...
The car behind me blows its horn. The exchange of pleasantries by the driver of the Lexus and the leather-jacketed hookah coolie is over. We inch forward, and he glances at me. I idly notice that he looks like me.
The world outside my car window fascinates me; I no longer belong to it. It no longer belongs to me.
I pause and imagine myself, smoke curling in wispy streams around my head, smiling like an idiot at the pop-pop-pop noise of the basins around me while feeling lightheaded from the lack of oxygen. Two lithe young girls dressed in mostly-black, one reclining and one leaning forward with her hands on her knees, take turns with the pipe. The seated one continually twirls the threaded sheath of the hose between two already nicotine-stained fingers -- the other mimes a fainting spell and the two laugh and pet each others' hair, grinning. A lanky guy of about 19 sits across from us, watching the girls; it's not hard to sense an adolescent fantasy lighting onto his brain. He visibly ogles them and they obviously notice the attention. A whisper, a giggle... The girl leaning forward sits back and allows the reclining girl to wrap arms around her, the pipe hose still twitching between her fingertips.
I watch passively, nonplussed. There's nothing special about tonight: The girls in black, the intense smell of ash, the occasional rush of conversation from the benches and couches around me... even the young, pimply dude with a boner and no ability to control his hormones. I inhale sharply. The smoke cuts like little knives...
The car behind me blows its horn. The exchange of pleasantries by the driver of the Lexus and the leather-jacketed hookah coolie is over. We inch forward, and he glances at me. I idly notice that he looks like me.
The world outside my car window fascinates me; I no longer belong to it. It no longer belongs to me.