The Art of Burning Bridges: Part II

Five.

         I’m still not even sure what happened to April. May arrived with such force that it actually knocked me back, and I had to spend a few days scrambling to put myself together again. I wrote that down on a scrap of paper and put it in a drawer to save for Audrey.
         I was seeing less of her. Finals were approaching and now that it was warm I spent most of my time studying in the park across the street. I had been attending classes, for the most part, and as a result I had less time for myself. Books that I intended to read were rapidly piling up beside my bed but remained untouched; story and paper ideas were scrawled on napkins, receipts, notebook covers and stacked haphazardly on my desk. I wrote a poem – Our differences are most apparent when you sleep. / I’m never older, more senile, than when your eyes are closed / and you, with your thumbs tucked into your fists, / are someone else entirely – but then I threw it away.
         I had to start buying cigarettes by the carton.

         It was getting dark. I went inside and, after leaving my bag by the door, sat down on the kitchen counter to watch Julian as he browned tofu in a pan. He told me, with a grin, that there had been nude models in his art class.
         “One of them brought in a bunch of scented candles,” he said.
         “And she lit them?”
         “He. Yeah.”
         “Did they smell good?”
         “I guess so.”
         I liked Julian. He was eccentric and funny and carried himself with an ease that was new to me – a result, I've come to decide, of an unnaturally contented childhood. Having grown up in the middle of a forest in Vermont and been raised on soy products and wheat germ, you have no choice, I think, but to be self-assured. His parents, an androgynous couple in their early fifties, wore Birkenstock's and drove an electric car. I'd only met them once, but his mother said she felt like she'd known me for lifetimes. Then she offered to cleanse my aura.

         "You want stir fry?" He asked, glancing up at me over his round tortoise-shell glasses.
         "Nah."
         "Nothing?"
         "No thanks."
         He pushed his hair behind his ears. He was always doing that – I used to think it was a nervous habit but it's not, it's just something he does all the time. He's a bit small, I guess – 5’8”, maybe 5’9” – and skinny, like me, with a young, round face and a pointed nose.
         “I haven’t seen Audrey around in awhile.”
         “Yeah. We’re both busy.”
         “That’s too bad.”
         Shrugging, “I guess.”
         “She seems into you.”
         “I don’t know what you mean.”
         “I think she likes you.”
         “No.”
         We were quiet. He picked at his food.
         “You’re impossible to talk to sometimes.”
         “Sorry.”
         A mushroom hit me on the side of my face. “Like hell you are.”

         Later that evening, Julian, Ramsay and I sat around the living room listening to records. My mother got me into records when I was very young, and when she moved back to Norway I received, as a parting gift, the bulk of her collection. In seventh grade, Audrey and I listened to every single one from start to finish, methodically making our way through the collection. We kept a notebook, writing down our thoughts on each one, and when we were finished we compiled a list of our favorites. This is something we continued to do, every year, up until the end of our friendship; the final edition of our list named two hundred and ninety-four records.
         “This is the guy that died from a heroin overdose, right?” Julian asked as I put a new record on.
         I nodded.
         “Jesus, that's fucking depressing,” Ramsay said as he pulled a cigarette from his pocket. It was his fourth in about an hour.
         “You ever do heroin?” I asked him.
         He exhaled slowly. “Hated it.”
         “Yeah?”
         “It just wasn't fun, you know? What's the point of sticking a fucking needle in your arm if it’s not gonna be fun?”
         Julian shuddered. “You injected it?”
         “Yeah.”
         I watched Ramsay for a second – half impressed, half disgusted – but he didn't seem to notice.
         “You want a smoke?” He asked me after a moment.
         “No thanks. I'm trying to cut back.”
         He laughed. “You just started, like, a month ago.”
         “Yeah, well he smokes like a pack a day now,” Julian said.
         Ramsay put a second cigarette in his mouth and lit it. “So what's one more?” He smiled, holding it out for me to take.
         “I really don't want one,” I told him. “But thank you.”
         “Suit yourself.”
         I turned my attention back to the music, but I could still feel him watching me. I shifted uncomfortably, fixing my gaze on the record player.
         “What?” I asked finally, turning toward him. “What is it?”
         He smiled. It was disquieting.
         “I'm just waiting,” he said.
         “For...?”
         “For you to have a cigarette.”
         “I said I don't want one.”
         “But you will.”
         I shook my head. “No, I won't. I don't want a cigarette.”
         “Maybe not right now.”
         “Are you kidding?”
         “Absolutely not.”
         “I don't want a fucking cigarette.”
         “That's fine,” he said. “But I'll save this for when you change your mind.”
         I was incredulous. “I fucking said I don't want a fucking cigarette.”
         Ramsay said nothing. He flicked his ashes into an empty beer bottle and continued to watch me.
         “This is getting ridiculous.” I got to my feet and grabbed my keys from the coffee table.
         “Where the hell do you think you're going?” Ramsay asked.
         “Out. I'll see you guys later.”
         “Man.” Julian grabbed my arm. “It's cool. Stay.”
         I shrugged him off. Seething, I rushed out into the street. How fucking dare he? is what I wanted to know. I searched quickly through my pockets for a joint – sometimes I’ll find one out of nowhere: a gift from the pot fairy. Not tonight.
         Washington Square Park was quiet; this time of night brings with it a lull, a sort of empty space that links the children and study groups to the lunatics and drug dealers. I turned right on Fifth Avenue, heading north towards Audrey’s apartment. I wasn’t even entirely sure yet if that was my destination; there were times it served me better as a general direction, an idea towards which I headed, a kind of concept of calmness.
         As I made my way up Fifth Avenue, I gave in and pulled out a cigarette. It was stupid, I know – I was angrier over the fact that Ramsay was right, that I really did want one, than I was about anything else. Was I that transparent or was he that insightful? Both prospects made me rather uneasy. There was something about him that was strange to me, some aspect of his character that I couldn’t quite understand, but that wasn’t everything. It was, almost literally, that I couldn’t see him clearly, as if there was something off with my perception – that the issue with Ramsay was actually my own, and had less to do with him than with my inability to comprehend him.
         Every so often I caught myself wondering who the fuck he was – like really, truly, at the simplest and most basic of levels, who was this person that Julian and I were spending so much time with? Where did he come from, what was he made of and why, when I searched his face, his expression, for some sort of answer, did he suddenly look so utterly human?
         I turned left on 21st Street and decided that I would, in fact, stop at Audrey’s apartment. I wondered what she would say when she saw me. It wasn’t unusual for me to drop by unannounced and vice versa – that was a part of our friendship I especially liked: I felt as if it made us a strong and solid pair.
         I thought it would be nice if I brought her some food so, stopping at the Italian restaurant beneath her apartment, I ordered melanzane alla parmigiana, mozzarella caprese, funghi ripieni and a mela verde salad to go. Then, carrying our food, I climbed the stairs to the second floor where Audrey lived and knocked on her door.
         Beck opened it, smiling. “Hey, Sam! Long time no see.” He stepped aside so I could come in.
         My heart sank. “I—what are you doing here?” I asked, still standing in the hallway.
         “Oh, they’re still doing renovations in my apartment. I’m just staying with Audrey until everything’s finished. Why don’t—?”
         “They finished the renovations a couple weeks ago, I thought.”
         “They were supposed to, but, you know,” he said, taking from me one of the bags of food. “Do you—?”
         “So you’ve been living with Audrey this whole time?”
         “Yeah, it’s been pretty great, actually.” He stopped to look at me, still holding the door. “She’ll be out of the shower any minute; don’t you want to come inside?”
         “Um, no,” I shook my head, my mind spinning. “No, I don’t want to.” I handed him the rest of the food and stepped back. “I can’t stay.” I turned away from him, my heart pounding wildly in my chest. "I have to go."
         "Hey." Beck grabbed my arm. He was being friendly.
         "Don't touch me," I snapped, pulling away. I glared at him for a minute, taking a sick kind of pleasure in his polite surprise. "I don't ever want you touching me."
         “What’s the problem?”
         “You’re fucking awful. You’re just the most horrible fucking person I’ve ever met, that’s all.”
         In the silence that followed I grabbed the container of stuffed mushrooms from Beck’s arms and fled, making sure to stomp good and hard on the steps as I rushed down them. They could have the eggplant parmesan, the cheese, the salad – but those fucking mushrooms were mine, and I was going to enjoy them.
         I exploded out the front door of the building, startling passers-by. I didn't care. I rushed down the street, hunched forward with my head down, blinking back tears. The container of stuffed mushrooms slipped from my hand and burst open on the sidewalk, sending its contents flying.
         Fucking hell! I slowed down for a second, briefly mourning my loss, but as I turned onto Fourteenth Street I picked up my pace once more. I wanted to get home, to have a beer, to forget all about Beck and Audrey – although, really, who the hell did he think he was? His smugness was so fucking infuriating I could barely handle it.

Six.

         I was surprised to discover that I had arrived home, and also that my face was wet – was I crying or sweating? I stood outside my building facing the park, and in the distance I heard hushed voices and laughter. Occasionally I could spot a lit cigarette or the glow of a cell phone – it was nice. The people in there, they seemed nice. Not that I knew them because I didn't, but they didn't sound like lunatics or drug dealers or assholes. They sounded normal, like me. They sounded like regular people.
         I let myself into the building and climbed the stairs slowly. I could hear music and chatter coming from my apartment, but I didn't mind. I was relieved, actually – I wanted the distraction.
         I opened the door to my apartment and gave myself a moment to take in the scene – it was just a few kids, fifteen at most, split up into a few groups and scattered around the living room. I left my sweater on the kitchen counter and grabbed a beer from the fridge. Julian looked over; I nodded to say hello.
         He excused himself from his conversation and came over to me. "Hey."
         "Hey."
         "What's wrong?"
         "Nothing, why?"
         "You look like hell."
         I shrugged.
         "I'm sorry about Ramsay earlier."
         "Don't sweat it."
         "No, seriously. He can be a shithead sometimes and I'm really sorry about that."
         "It's cool. I'm over it. It really wasn't a big deal, I just wasn't…in the mood."
         "Yeah."
         “Hey, Sam,” Ramsay called from the other room. “You wanna do a couple lines with me?”
         Julian laughed.
         I considered his question for a moment, then nodded. “Yeah, sure.”
         The smile disappeared immediately from Julian’s face. “Wait, what?”
         I started toward the living room, but he grabbed my arm.
         “For real, Sam?”
         “Yeah, why not?”
         “Because it’s coke?” He shook his head, bewildered. “You don’t do coke.”
         “It’s one time.”
         “You’re really fucking serious right now?”
         “Yeah.”
         “I don’t understand.”
         I turned away from him. “You don’t have to.”
         “Don’t be dumb,” he snapped, yanking me back.
         Everyone got quiet.
         I looked at him. “You do it all the fucking time.”
         “It doesn’t matter. No – you know what? – it doesn’t even fucking matter! Just because you’re in a bad fucking mood—”
          “I’m in a great mood.”
         “Bullshit.”
         “Let go of my arm.”
         “Sam.”
         Something ignited within me and ascended quickly through my body. I grabbed Julian by the neck and slammed him into the refrigerator; his beer bottle fell to the floor, landing in one piece. I released him and watched, intrigued, as foam spilled from the neck of the bottle and formed a puddle on the linoleum.
         Julian grabbed a roll of paper towels and started mopping up the mess.
         “Go for it, you fucking asshole,” he said, without looking up.
         I pointed to Ramsay. “You.”
         He grinned. “Me?”
         “Come on.” I headed towards my room.
         “Me?” He said again.
         I doubled back and grabbed him by the arm, pulling him along with me. I closed my bedroom door behind us.
         “For the record,” he said when I let go, “you probably shouldn't touch me.”
         “For the record,” I sneered, “You probably shouldn't fucking try to intimidate me in my own home.” I grabbed him by the shoulders and pushed him back as hard as I could. He stumbled briefly before steadying himself.
         He looked annoyed, like I was a child and he had been given, against his wishes, the burden of disciplining me. He took a moment to, I don't know, collect his thoughts, before he threw me to the ground.
         “I wasn't fucking joking,” he snarled. “Keep your fucking hands to yourself. I don't like being touched.”
         I said nothing.
         Ramsay continued to glare at me. Then, “Is that all? Is that why you brought me in here?”
         I got to my feet. “No.”
         “Then what is it that you fucking want, Sam?”
         I stepped past him and into my closet to dig through my hamper. I emerged a second later with the book I had hidden and placed it in his hands.
         “Open it.”
         He did. There, on page 297, was the bag of coke.
         “I want you to show me how to do it.”
         Quietly, he looked me over. He was smiling very faintly now. Without saying a word he sat down on my bed and placed the book on his knees. Carefully, he opened the bag and dumped some of its contents out onto the cover, then pulled a library card from his pocket and divided the powder into two separate lines.
         “You watching?” He murmured.
         “Yes.”
         He brought the book to his face and sniffed up one of the lines. No straw or anything, he just sniffed it right up. Passing the picture to me, he brought one hand to his face and rubbed his nose. “Your turn,” he said.
         I sat down next to him. "Just...?"
         “Just inhale.”
         “Does it hurt?”
         “No.”
         “What if I have a heart attack?”
         “That's not enough to give anyone a heart attack,” he said. “Go on.”
         I sort of suspected I was already having a heart attack, actually. My heart was pounding so violently against my ribcage that I was sure he could hear it. However, he didn't seem to notice.
         “Okay, I'm gonna do it.”
         “Go ahead.”
         “Okay.” Half afraid I would chicken out, I quickly brought the book to my nose and inhaled as hard as I could, my eyes squeezed shut. I barely felt it. Like Ramsay, I rubbed my nose. “That's it?”
         “You did it, Sam.”
         “Now what?” But before I even finished asking, I felt it. “Oh.”
         Ramsay smiled. “There you go, kid. You’re one of us now.” He got to his feet and gave me a loud, wet kiss on the forehead. “Jane Carmichael wants to fuck you,” he said, then disappeared out the door.

         I met Ramsay only a few weeks before my birthday. It was one of those freak days in mid-February when the temperature reaches the upper fifties. The city was saturated in sunlight which isn't unusual for the winter months but, accompanied by the scent of spring, it was something else entirely.
         The door to Ramsay's building was propped open with an old newspaper. I followed Julian inside and we headed down a hallway, its walls lined either side with rusty, dented mailboxes. We shuffled quietly along the cracked tiled floor to the staircase in the back.
         Continuing up the stairs, we paused at each landing to catch our breath. Julian had with him a six pack of beer and a 40oz bottle of malt liquor; I had two six packs. Each step sloped inward in the center and groaned softly under our weight; several times I found myself reaching quickly for the banister until Julian chuckled and said, "Don't know if that'll do you any good."
         "That's a safety hazard," I told him when we reached the top.
         "It's not."
         "How is that not a safety hazard?"
         He shrugged. "Just don't fall down the fucking stairs and you'll be safe."
         "Clearly."
         "Come on." He pushed open the door to apartment 6G and we went inside. Julian went immediately to the refrigerator to deposit some of his beer, but I stood momentarily beside the bar that connected the kitchen to the living room, taking it all in. I was impressed, admittedly, by not only the size of the apartment but also the things with which Ramsay and his roommates filled their space.
         I was drawn first to the window that overlooked the street; in the distance was downtown Manhattan, obscured by treetops and buildings but still visible. A massive bookshelf was built into the adjacent wall, one half completely filled with books and the other with records.
         "Shit," I breathed, running my hand along one of the shelves. "There has to be thousands of records here."
         "Ramsay lost count after about 3,000," Julian said, opening a beer.
         "Shit," I said again.
         "He has more in his room. Those are just the ones he listens to most often."
         I pulled one out at random and laughed. "Night Beat."
         "Yeah, he has a boner for Sam Cooke."
         "He's great."
         "Check this out," Julian said, approaching the old record player that sat on a small table beside the window. "Califone, from 1964 I think." He took the record from me. Sliding it quickly out of its sleeve, he placed it on the player and turned it on.
         "Dude, watch your beer," I murmured.
         He just grinned at me and crooned, "Noooobody knows the...trouble that I've seeee-een. Nooooobody knows...my-eye-eye sorrow. Eh? I do a better Sam Cooke than you do, guy."
         "You're a regular renaissance man," I said, turning my attention now to the huge collection of books.
         Julian, still standing by the record player, explained, “He likes to read.”
         “Who, Ramsay?”
         “Yeah.”
         “These aren't all his, are they?”
         “I think so.”
         I took a step back. “Are you serious? There are as many books as there are records.”
         “He reads a lot.”
         “They can't all be his. That's impossible.”
         “I'm pretty sure they are, Sam.”
         “No.” I shook my head. “No. No way. Because that means he has three times as many books as I do.”
         Julian shrugged. “I don't know what to tell you.” He looked at me for a second. “Except, I mean, he probably hasn't read them all.”
         “Yeah,” I said, but when I looked closely I could see that the spine of each book was cracked and peeling.
         "Come on." Julian slapped me on the back. "Grab a couple of beers and let's head up to the roof."

         His friends were impressive. I mean, I wasn't impressed, but they were – they were impressed by each other and impressed by themselves, and they tried to be even more impressive than everyone else, and all of them felt like frauds and were frauds and thought they were the only ones.
         We all sat in a circle, drinking and talking, shivering and shifting to get closer, harnessing our body heat – all, except for Ramsay. Unaffected by the cold, he sat a little outside the circle with an extra long cigarette dangling from his lips. He was impressive, though I'm not sure why, and it was obvious that everyone wanted to be like him and to be liked by him, even Julian. Even me, I guess.
         I could tell right away that he was tall, and while he wasn't terribly muscular, he wasn't lanky either. He was lean, tall and long and lean, with brown hair past his chin, brown eyes and a round, feminine mouth. He didn't smile, he didn't even join the discussion – in fact, he looked bored as sat quietly, gazing indifferently toward the center of the circle.
         Watching him, I listened to the others talk. Despite his silence, his presence was overwhelming to the point of distraction – and not just for me, but for everyone. Every single person there was completely taken with this guy – throwing him glances, perking up if he moved or blinked or coughed or sighed, trying, pseudo-subtly, to get his attention. But he only looked at me. Every time he looked up, it was to look at me. I shifted uncomfortably.
         "Sam," he said, cutting one of his roommates off in mid-sentence. "It is Sam, right?"
         I nodded nervously, afraid he was going to tell me to stop staring and get the fuck off his roof.
         Quietly, he looked me over. Everybody was watching us.
         "Sam what?"
         "Cooke."
         "Sam Cooke? Like the singer?"
         I swallowed. "Yeah."
         "Your name is Sam Cooke?"
         "Yes."
         "With an E at the end, or no?"
         "With an E."
         "Isn't that cute," he murmured.
         "Thank you."
         "So." He grabbed a beer and opened it with his lighter. "What are your thoughts on what Dylan was saying?"
         "What? Oh." I sat up straight, looking at Dylan – who was visibly pleased that Ramsay had taken notice of his discussion – and shrugged. "I'm sorry, I wasn't, uh, really listening."
         Everyone was quiet as Ramsay lit another cigarette, shielding the cherry from the wind. He took a long drag, gazing lazily around the circle and exhaled slowly as his eyes landed on mine. "He was talking about art."
         "Oh." I was shaking slightly. "I don't really know much about art."
         "Oh, no?"
         "No, not really."
         "Well, I mean, you know enough," Julian spoke up and I turned to glare at him. He continued. "No, I mean, we're talking about Matt Carnovale – you've heard of him."
         "Yeah, but I don't really know that much about his work or anything."
         "You know enough."
         I shot Julian a look. "If you say so, buddy," I said through clenched teeth.
         "Dude, come on." Julian tapped my shoulder with his beer bottle. "Dylan was saying that Carnovale's paintings are totally overrated—"
         Dylan interrupted. "And Julian pitched a fit because—"
         "Oh, come off it, I did not pitch a fit."
         "You pitched a fit because you totally fucking worship the guy, when the fact of the matter is there are so many other artists out there that are worth looking into, and, you just, you, you totally refuse to even..." Dylan finished off the rest of his beer and opened a new one before speaking again. "You just gotta fuckin' broaden your horizons, man."
         Julian shook his head. “I know what else is out there. Don't say I need to fuckin' see what else is out there, because I know what's out there.”
         “Obviously you don't.”
         “Obviously you're a fucking idiot, because Matt Carnovale is a fantastic painter and you agreed until he started getting popular.”
         “Yeah, well, now—”
         “Now what? Now that it's mainstream you're not into it anymore? That's fucking stupid.”
         “That's not what I said.”
         “You didn't have to.”
         Dylan was quiet.
         Julian turned to me. “And that's about where we left off.”
         I nodded.
         "So,” Ramsay said, flicking the ash from his cigarette. "Who do you agree with?"
         I shrugged. “Honestly? I think the whole fucking thing is stupid.” I looked at Julian. “I mean, isn't it? Don't you realize how dumb this is? So what if one person thinks he's overrated and another doesn't – it's all a matter of opinion, really. I don't know, I just think conversations like these are really pretentious – no offense, guys – but for real, I mean, who cares? You're not discussing anything of merit – you're not even talking about his work, you're just...it's just...it's just a competition to see who knows more about art, who can make a more compelling argument. My money's on Julian, personally, but like I said, it doesn't even fucking matter. I, for one, don't think Matt Carnovale is overrated. I like his work. But seriously, do either of you really give a shit about my thoughts on the matter? Or each other's? I don't think you do.”
         The quiet that followed felt to me like a vacuum. I looked at Dylan, hoping to be able to read his expression but now he, like Ramsay, was gazing absently into the center of the circle. He was slightly pink in the face, although I was unsure if he was embarrassed or just cold. I turned to Julian, but his face was obscured by his hair as he concentrated deeply on peeling the label off his bottle.
         Ramsay shifted; all eyes fell on him.
         “Sam,” he said. “You want a cigarette?”
         I shrugged. “Okay.”
         Everyone sat for a moment in an awkward silence while he lit it for me. When he handed it over he said, “Let’s go back inside for awhile,” and I followed him without looking back.

         My heart felt heavy before I even opened my eyes. When I did I was in Julian's bed, alone and still wearing my clothes from the night before. A note on his pillow said “At class – back around 6” and I sat up thinking shit!, but it was too late, I'd already missed both of my classes for the day.
         Looking around, I realized this was the first time I'd ever really seen Julian's room. It was a bit smaller than mine and the walls were completely covered, floor to ceiling, with art. It was nice – colorful and vibrant; his room had texture, feeling. Scattered along the floor were a number of books, several photographs, and art supplies – a huge amount of art supplies. His bike, a vintage, decrepit looking thing, hung from the ceiling near the window and in the corner, propped up against the wall, were a couple of hockey sticks.
         I couldn't shake the soft and sorry sadness in my chest. Groaning, I rolled over onto my stomach and pulled the covers up and over my head, but it wasn't long before I got hot and kicked them off. I couldn't bring myself to get up, and so I stayed right where I was and spent a good portion of the afternoon dozing.
         I felt lonely. Even in my sleep I felt lonely; it was an unsettled sleep, the kind that makes you more tired than you were before and, as a result, even lonelier. Exhaustion and loneliness, I've found, go hand in hand. I can't seem to have one without the other.

         After Ramsay left my room, I sat down and started writing. At some point Julian began pounding on my door because I'd locked it, and when I finally let him in I was crying. Everyone else had gone – he kicked them out, he said, he didn't want them over anymore – and I told him in a single breath about my encounter with Beck, and also that I was very very sorry for acting like a jerk. He brought me a glass of water and I drank it, quickly, then I went to the bathroom and threw up.
         My mind was racing which made sleeping even harder than usual, and in my frustration I found myself crying again. Julian came in and said I could sleep in his room, but I was humiliated.
         “Come on, Sam. You never sleep.”
         “I know, I really don't. I don't ever sleep, you have no idea.”
         “I do. I know you don't sleep.”
         I was sitting up, my face buried in my hands. “I'm sorry. I'm really sorry, Julian.”
         “Don't worry about it.”
         “No. I'm really embarrassed. This is so embarrassing.”
         “Who cares? I don't care. Stay in my room tonight, Sam. Please?”
         “Oh my god. I'm so embarrassed.”
         “Come on.” He took my pillow and stood beside my bed until I got up and went with him to his room.
         “Wake me up if I fall asleep before you do,” he told me.
         “I can't do that. I'm not gonna do that.”
         “No, seriously. I really don't mind.”
         “Okay,” I said finally, but I was lying.
         Julian fell asleep almost immediately and, as I stretched out beside him, I thought about my mother. I missed her with such permanence it was actually stifling, and for a moment I couldn't breathe. Rolling over, I clutched my pillow against my chest – I've found that if I apply enough pressure to my ribcage I can actually calm myself down.
         It's so funny that the heart gets all the credit when the sternum is really where everything lies.

Seven.

         My lungs, having only been exposed to the (relatively) mild smoke of marijuana, took a while to get used to the extra long cigarettes that Ramsay offered me every time he took one out for himself. Ramsay, if I had to describe him in a word, would best be defined as overpowering. Not purposely, of course – in fact, I don't even think he was conscious of it because, if he was, he'd have lost it altogether.
         His power derived from the sheer ease of his authority; the way he’d hold the second cigarette – my cigarette – between his index and middle fingers, never coming out and offering it to me but making it clear enough that it was mine for the taking, and he was so nonchalant as he lit them, taking a long drag from one and exhaling slowly, his bored smirk melting into a content smile that only a smoker can recognize – that I was starting to recognize myself. No matter what I learned in school about lung cancer or heart disease and no matter how many times I coughed or how many I’d smoked within the hour, I found myself, time and time again, going over to Ramsay to retrieve my cigarette, a cigarette that I didn’t even fucking want or fucking enjoy, a cigarette that was a weapon in disguise; Ramsay’s way of keeping me coming back for more, and no matter fucking what I took it every fucking time, surrendering myself knowingly and completely.
         I had no defense and even if I did, I wouldn’t have used it.