111
Before I had the chance to react, I found myself being yanked into the sloshing tub of lukewarm water. As I emerged, gasping, a rich and baritone sound filled my draining ears. Our laughter ricocheted off the sand dollar wallpaper of the bathroom.
“And you call yourself adult!” Having peeled the soggy articles of cotton from our bodies, Mick and I each slid into a dry set of pajamas. Despite him having been the smaller of the two, I was just barely able to get by wearing a pair of Johnny‟s flannel lounging pants; their ability of staying above my waistline depending entirely on the strength of the drawstring, and a prayer. For a top, I used a simple cotton shirt and Johnny‟s old hoodie from his college days at the University of Chicago. (Go Maroons!) For my sake alone perhaps, Mick dressed just as modestly; he with his flannel pants and wifebeater pullover. As we rocked lazily on the porch swing sipping our tea, VanGogh grazed the untamed pasture of the back lawn; vainly chasing the fireflies. Over the woodland canopy, the horizon was aglow with brazen shades of orange, red, and purple as the sun slipped lower in the sky. Already the crickets had begun to stage their peaceful melody, only minutes short of twilight. The stench of burning tobacco molesting my nostrils, I glanced over at Mick; witnessing his lungs‟ intake of the tar-like poison. Overcome with disgust, my response reflexive, I plucked the cigarette from his lips and dropped it into my drink. “You said you were going to quit!” Mick‟s thick blonde eyebrows leapt up in question only to relax in pained realization. “You‟re right. I‟m sorry.” Taking the mug from me, he threw it into the yard. My shoulders cringed at the echo of porcelain shattering against the ground.