Cigarettes and Chocolate Milk

Chapter 7

Chapter 7

It was strange – the silence. Kathy didn't understand how New York could feel so still and silent with all the people filling the sidewalks and all the cars cramming the streets. But it was. Not a sound. Just her and Jack and the snow falling lightly, the kind that melted as soon as it touched the skin of your cheek or the heat of your breath.

Jack had his crumbled Marlboro pack in his hand and she watched absentmindedly as he pulled yet another cigarette out of it. Watching him light it was oddly fascinating, the way the cigarette hung from the corner of his mouth like he was James Dean reincarnated, his shoulders hunched and his mood cool and gloomy. Watching him made her want to smoke, which was utterly ridiculous because she hated it, despised it really. Her one experience smoking resulted in a coughing fit that left her close to puking – not one of her finer moments. But Jack made it look sexy as hell and she imagined herself reaching out, taking the cigarette from between his lips and placing it between her own, sharing it like it was the prelude to a kiss, the promise of something more.

She must have been staring – who was she kidding? Of course she was staring. And of course he noticed, she could tell by the way he was grinning without looking directly at her, but the grin didn't reach his eyes. They were still sad and haunted, still trapped in that hell he went through a year ago, was probably still going through today. At a loss for what to do next, how to fill the silence, she nudged the guitar case that was propped up on the step below them with the toe of her sneaker, a crooked smile on her face that she hoped didn't look as forced as it felt. "Mind if I play?"

He raised an eyebrow, caught off guard. "You play?"

"Well, Chopsticks." She wrinkled her nose, trying not to laugh as his brow furrowed and he got a confused look on his face. "On piano." She grabbed the guitar case and sat it across her lap. "How hard could it be on guitar?" she asked, taunting him.

His mouth was hanging open and she could practically hear the gears in his brain working to figure out what to say next. While she waited for his comeback, she ran her glove-covered fingers over the beat-up case, tracing the various stickers that were placed all over it haphazardly, a mosaic of bands, bars, and Jack's dreams. She couldn't help wondering what each sticker represented, what the story was behind each one. Given time, she could easily make up her own, probably giving him a much more tame and sedate life than he truly led.

"You ain't playing Chopsticks on my guitar," he said, his voice whiskey-deep and rough.

He flicked his cigarette butt onto the sidewalk, barely missing a group of giggling women who were clutching bulging bags from some high-end stores, stores Kathy loved to window shop at but never had the nerve to go inside. They were obviously out Christmas shopping and Kathy felt a twinge of loneliness. All her gift giving was through the mail this year – some random toys she'd bought for her stepsister and brother, a polo shirt for her dad, a vase for her step mom, and a card for her mother. The card had even been a stretch, something she'd mulled over at the Hallmark store for far longer than she should have. All the sentiments in those cards seemed so false, like she'd be lying if she tried to pretend she meant any of the flowery, sentimental words in them, but she couldn't just send a generic Happy Holidays card – well, she could, but then she'd have to live with the knowledge that she'd disappointed her mother yet again.

Popping the latches on the case, she pulled out the guitar and sat the case on the ground in front of them. She brushed a stray flurry off her cheek as she winked at Jack, who was eyeing her and his guitar warily. "Perfect night to play a song or two," she said, strumming her fingers over the strings. The thick yarn of her gloves got caught and she saw him wince as he reached out and carefully pried the instrument from her grasp.