Crayon Bridge
A Story of What Might’ve Happened
Fingers stained with paint, right leg itchy, tingling, on the edge of that non-burning burning from the turpentine that spilled and soaked my jeans, I dug for the last cigarette in the crumpled paper pack, lit it quickly, and slid down the wall onto the floor.
Tobacco and oil and turpentine mixed like a magic potion coating my tongue and filling my nose…