𝐎𝐅 𝐒𝐈𝐍𝐍𝐄𝐑𝐒 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐒𝐀𝐈𝐍𝐓𝐒

CHAPTER TWO

𝙼𝚢𝚛𝚘𝚗

The moon shone bright, illuminating the abandoned train tracks with a pale glow. Zephyr from the west tousled his hair and an owl hooted in the background. Impatient, Myron lit a spliff and brought it to his lips. He shut his eyes and inhaled, then blew out a cloud of smoke and watched as it dissipated in the air.

In the darkest corner where the moon failed to see, the only sign of a presence was the small, incandescent flame from a cigarette being lit. Behind the flame, someone spoke in a rough voice. "You're here awfully early."

Myron shrugged, "Misery has no time." Then he squinted his eyes. "Cut it out with the theatrics, Dru and come out of the shadows, will ya?"

Dru chuckled and threw the cigarette onto the tracks, Myron watched the ember ashes flicker and die out. Dru Williams stepped forward, suddenly engulfed in the pale light. Huddled in a fading grey hoodie that read 'WM Football'(Dru did not play football nor did he favor the sport) in bold white print and skinny jeans that rode low, he folded his bulging arms and scanned Myron from head to toe. "Rough day?"

"How about a rough life."

"Wanna talk about it?" He asked with a raised brow, his eyebrow piercing glinting seductively under the moonlight.

Myron took another pull at his spliff and exhaled a ring of smoke. "What are you my fucking therapist?" He gave a bitter laugh. "I don't pay you for advice, I pay you to make me forget my problems. Not talk about them."

Dru chuckled, raising his hands in defense. "Calm down, Mi amigo." Then his face grew somber. "It's never wise to bottle up your emotions. It will consume you, and eat you up inside until one day..." His voice softened. "It will all be too much to handle."

"Why do you care?" Myron asked curiously.

He smiled a sad smile that had the moon weeping at his feet. Up close, Myron took note of his eyes for the first time.They were startling little things. His right eye was a blend of sundrops and stardust and his left eye resembled the color of rich soil. Myron believed the term was called heterochromia. How beautiful his eyes were, and how unfair.

"You know there's this spanish proverb that always stood out to me: Hay remedio para todo menos la muerte." Dru stole his spliff, ignoring his protests and wrapped his mouth around it taking a deep pull and exhaling with a satisfied sigh.

"There is a remedy for everything but death," Myron said.

"You speak spanish?" Dru extended his hand and Myron took the spliff from his fingers.

"Ah but to be a poet you must speak many languages," Myron smirked.

"I forgot you're one of those literature junkies."

And suddenly Myron was pulled back into reality and was reminded of his true self. A spoiled, opulent boy who belonged to his estate, not standing in an abandoned train track on the other side of town. He stared at Dru and saw a boy like himself yet not. Myron was a scholar; a man of intellect that breathed the words that he wrote. While Dru was written in sin; a personified turpitude. Purple bloomed across his knuckles, his sharp cheekbones decorated in a kaleidoscope of bruises. The snake shaved on the side of his head hissed dangerously at him. Dru was everything he should stay away from. Dru was the boy on the wrong side of the tracks and Myron was the rich kid with too much power for his own good.

Clearing his throat, Myron said. "What do you have for me today?"

Dru straightened himself. It was back to business. This was the reason for their visit. Not to stand idly and have deep conversations about life. "What are you looking for?" Dru shoved his hands into his pockets.