We All Belong

It was hard walking up the dew-kissed lawn with the giant comforter draped about her shoulders. Her slippers were in no way made to provide such traction, and in the short climb to the street from the lower terrace, she slipped and fell a good number of times, wetting the knees of her pajamas. he was tired and her head was throbbing from the shrill chatter and drunken shouting downstairs.
Having caught her fall a third time, he was now busying himself with a cigar at the top of the hill, his face wrinkled slightly with exhausted concentration in the flickering light of the flame. When she caught up to him, shivering slightly in the chill, ears ringing from the noise which was now dwindling slowly as they walked farther and farther from the open door, he took the glowing cigar from his mouth and handed it to her with a vague and sleepy smile. She accepted it gladly, and as he lit another for himself, she stood silently on the sidewalk, breathing in deeply, letting the smoke invade her airways.
"Where we headed, anyway?" he muttered, pocketing his effects and taking a long drag.
"Nowhere," she suggested. "Anywhere."
The stars were glistening overhead. Some winked down at them with a coy appreciation of their venture into the night. Some looked close enough to touch; some looked billions of miles away. No crickets' song. By the soft porch light, a bat danced, gracefully swooping out of the still night air what little was left of the insects of Indian Summer.
"The truck?" he asked, quietly accepting a corner of the blanket as she offered it. She nodded, coughing lightly, and the two shuffled in the direction of the parked cars.
The truck was a celebrity among vehicles. Each piece of the body was a different color, in varying states of rust and decay. The color of the tailgate was long-forgotten, for every inch was plastered with colorful stickers for bands, charities, or clubs, or promoting political views, or sporting a popular cartoon character. No one knew to whom the worn-down truck properly belonged. It was always parked at these parties, anyway, and its six-foot bed was ideal for a private conversation or a peaceful smoke or a little bit of secluded intimacy.
The dew had already gotten to the plastic lining of the truck bed. She learned this upon sitting straight down, now wetting the seat of her pajamas along with the knees.
They giggled. Then, he climbed over the tailgate and laid out the comforter beneath them. They sat facing each other, leaning their heads and shoulders on the opposite sides of the truck, looking into each other's eyes. There was silence. She flicked her ashes behind her shoulder occasionally. He flicked his straight onto the comforter. They sat and smoked.
Just sitting and smoking was boring.
They tried talking. As fragrant smoke lingered around their heads and lifted their hushed voices gradually higher and higher into the darkness, towards the twinkling stars, and diffused itself casually into the brisk air around them, they exchanged every bit of information which had been locked away before, but which had been unleashed, were it by the exhaustion or the privacy or the burning cigars or the dew blanketing everything.
Her uncle was the only smoker in her family. He was a fucking failure, man, but he was a genius. An alcoholic. A junkie - literally addicted to every substance you could think of. Everyone hates him now, he ruined his life. Not her, though. She admired his ideas. He was clean now anyway, so he could see his daughter again. He was a Colorado pothead without a stomach, a cancer survivor with a PhD in biochemistry. He was a Buddhist Christian with two DUIs, a two-time divorcee with a lesbian crack dealer for an ex-wife. He had been clean for years. He had paid off all his debts and gotten a better-paying job than her parents. She was proud of him - he was so open about his addictions. But they were all anyone else ever saw; they never saw his recovery or his achievements.
He watched her face as she spoke. He watched the way her body melted into the blanket as she exhaled. He realized he knew nothing about this girl, and he liked it.
He asked if she knew Plath. She didn't. He asked if she knew Hughes. She didn't. He explained the complexities of Kerouac and Kafka and Tolkien. (She knew Tolkien. She loved Tolkien.) He became a storyteller of iconic tales. He summarized his favorite transcendental novels and recited his favorite beat poetry and together they analyzed syntax and gave birth to new meanings and possibilities and opinions. They laughed at how nerdy there were. He got out to relieve himself on the pavement. She didn't look.
She lit another. She could feel the dew creeping through the fibers of the blankets. They sat silently again. She put out her cigar.
"You're shivering," he said.
"No, I'm not cold." She coughed again.
"Come here." He returned to the truck bed and sat stiffly beside her. "You are freezing." His sweater was soft and warm. She leaned into him, nestled in the crook of his arm.
The stars looked down silently. They knew a secret. How cheeky they were.
He lit another, and smiled. "Go to sleep if you want," he muttered. "Let's not go back." She smiled and sighed and nodded. He looked up at the bright stars. They winked down at him. He winked back.