"You know, your sister is dead." The ways she says 'is' reminds me of blonde valley girls. THis reminds me of the prep culture. This reminds me of Alisha.
A car drives by.
"It's ok for you to grieve if you want, I'm your friend." The headlights form the passing car reflect in Tami's eyes. In case one wonders they're hazel. Her eyes are fun to watch, they'll range from brown to green to gray. It all depends on everything.
When I first met her, they were brown. Right now they're green.
"It's really weird how you're handling this. Not talking and all, are you in shock?"
I really don't know.

After the attendant and I made eye contact I opened the pack and handed one to Tami, then took one for myself. We lit up, and as per routine, we gave the clerk the finger.
She picked up the phone, we assumed it was the cops on the other line.
Off we went to Tami's house.

Tami's family is a happy one. Her parents, her, her older brother. Take the picture, send it to a developer, frame it as the portrait of the American Dream. The parents work, support each other and their offspring. From what I can see, they're in love.
Their son is a succesful boy. He managed to stay out of trouble, now he's back east working on a degree of sorts. I've never met him.
It makes me wonder if he dreams in color.
Then there's the daughter people consider a little strange. Her opinions are different and her friends are the type you throw change at. But her parents love Tami. To them, Tami is in a phase.
A nightmare.
They tell themselves that they're doing everything they can to hold her hand while she stumbles. They beam with pride at the thought of her future. They think they've taught her enough in their upbringing.
She knows about swearing.
She knows about the evils of sex.
She knows how bad drugs are.
They're so proud of her.

"Quit camping on the fucking bottle."
Did I mention Tami's belligerant when she's drinking?
It's 8-something on a weeknight, we're sitting on these ancient cement steps by the gas-station from earlier. There's a highway nearby and thse headlights keep blinding us.
With each passing car my muscles tense at the thought of it pulling up, that slow creep, the seven-pointed star.
Did I mention I'm a dram paranoid when I'm drinking?
"Here's to sobriety."
It didn't last too long.
"It' needs a sending off party."

When we got to Tami's, the house was quiet. Upstairs we went to her room and closed the door. As routine, we set down our things and lay on the floor. Both of us lay on our backs forming this line of bodies on her floor with only the tops of our heads touching. This how we talk on afternoons like these.
The first time Tami's mom realized we were home alone, in her room with the door closed, she came running. The door flew open and there we were, laughing, laying on our backs. Our converstation ended mid-sentence and we just turned our heads to observe this blushing elderly woman gape at us. Tami waved, her mom nodded, then turned around, closing the door behind her.
I swear there was a rolling pin in her hand.
I mention this as it is the afternoons conversation. Reminiscing on the days past. Another part of the routine: mandatory nostalgia.
It makes me wonder why people let the past fade out. They'll hold onto memories, tokens of the past, anything to destract themselves from the present.
Haven't they learned that nothing lasts?

Our conversations over, ended by a gentle knocking on the door, Tami's father opens the door and greets us.
He smiles at me. He likes me because I've never had sex with his daughter and don't plan on it. He dislikes me because I act the way he doesn't want Tami to. However, he'd rather have me around the Joe. I'm not trying to kill myself with a spatula or some other act like that.
I nod at him. I don't have any feelings toward this man, when Tami moves out of her house it's very unlikely I'll ever see him again.
The simple courtesies of life.
"I gues that's our cue to exit stage." Tame waits for me to get up, then pull her to her feet. Next she rumages through her room, grunts in frustration, then goes into her closet.
Clothes that smell unwashed and random objects fall through the door onto the floor before Tami reapperars from the closet.
She's now wearing a jacket and holding a bottle of generic whiskey.
"A remedy for my melancholy friend."
Fuck Tami, she knows I'm sober.
"Sobriety shall always crumble underneath the weight of a tragedy."

Headlights pass.
A bottle tilts.
Vision blurs.
In a haze the past dimihishes, the routine fades. Alisha is no longer in my shadow bleeding.