She knows I'm not inspired if I'm happy
Hazel sits on the hood of my car, wearing a pair of little old sunglasses and a coat that seems altogether inappropriate for a night in the middle of an oppressively humid North Carolina summer. But tonight, the air is strangely cool, and I suspect Hazel might be one of the few people dressed for it. Between her lips I see a candy cigarette dangling like the bottle of Blenheim's ginger ale held loose between her fingers, and she watches me, examining what I've done, and judges me. While I have strayed, Hazel has always believed uncompromisingly in the dream, and as I wavered she was waiting.
She takes the candy cigarette out of her mouth, and addresses her gaze to it instead of me. "You were not weak," she says, "but you were foolish. The effects are similar, but the difference is crucial." She sighs. "But three lefts will make things right." She counts off on her fingers. "So this should make things right again." She puts the candy cigarette back in her mouth and mumbles, "in the end, anyway."
She takes the candy cigarette out of her mouth, and addresses her gaze to it instead of me. "You were not weak," she says, "but you were foolish. The effects are similar, but the difference is crucial." She sighs. "But three lefts will make things right." She counts off on her fingers. "So this should make things right again." She puts the candy cigarette back in her mouth and mumbles, "in the end, anyway."