Inhale

16.

"How slow life is, how violent hope is."

- Guillaume Apollinaire

(A/N: some depictions of withdrawal symptoms, but very minor.)

"Cheer up, Laurence. You like that school, don'you?" Marcel flicked the last pale ashes of his cigarette away and rolled up the window. A small spiral of smoke whipped out as the glass met the top of the frame with a little sigh that matched his own. He put both hands back on the battered steering wheel.

Marcel's car wasn't as new or polished as Ruell's, but it seemed to actually be his. Ruell never let anything besides himself and one passenger into his car. Other than my school things, I couldn't remember seeing a single thing beyond the value of a tissue in there. There was no touching of the radio, no adjusting the temperature, and certainly no opening and closing the windows. Again, it's not as if it was ever explicitly expressed to me not to do these things. But Ruell never made anyone feel comfortable enough to try, anyway.

Marcel's car was considerably smaller, a metallic silver that was quietly flashy with plain black seats and interior. It seemed less like a declaration of wealth and more like a personal possession. Inside, the fabric had absorbed a small amount of smokiness, despite Marcel's attempts to hold them out the window. It was thinly masked by a small and well-loved air-freshener shaped like a bow that dangled from the rear-view mirror. "My sister's," he insisted, constantly, as though it were too ridiculous to have in his car otherwise. Though, no matter how much he promised it was its final month there, each term I came back to the sight of it.

The glove compartment was full of crumpled receipts and other knick-knacks that had no other home. Beneath that, packets upon packets of gum, black-mint menthol to be exact. The smell had kick to it, one that wafted up as the lid popped open and made your eyes water once you bit down. I had assumed it was to mask the smell of smoke on his breath, but it became quickly apparent that he was chewing more than he was lighting.

"Are you trying to quit?" I passed him a piece of extraordinarily green gum that he had been motioning for. He took it from me, chewing for some time before responding. The smell of harsh mint began to spread throughout the car.

"Key word, trying." He flexed his hand. "With all the stress I've half a mind to double up." He chuckled, then sobered. "I'm joking, of course. Andrew keeps fretting about it. It's making me lose sleep."

Andrew. "Is he your...Fiancé?" I tried. The word felt foreign on my tongue, but I didn't want any more secrets. Silence was beginning to sour in my mind.

Marcel smiled. The small things.

"Yeah...crazy, right? Your mum always said there's someone for everyone but I can't say I ever believed her." He said. The cabin grew quiet as we churned his words over. There was so much he had learned from my mother, so much time spent in their lessons and on the grounds. In the end, he had seen her more than I had.

"Does- Did my mum know? About you and Andrew?"

"No," Marcel admitted, "she didn't. Though I wish I had told her."

"That you found someone? Or about Andrew."

"Both." He glanced over at me. "I know what you're thinking."

"No, you don't."

He chuckled to himself as he turned off the winding road, giving a two-fingered salute to a car that hadn't let him pass. "It's written all over your face. Whatever it is that's goin' on at school, it's making you paranoid."