The last time I saw Mary, or the last time during our childhoods, she wore a large, black hoodie. 

“I have to go away,” she told me.


Mary only shrugged. 

“I may be moving, too,” I said. 

Neither of us spoke. She looked down at her black, Chuck Taylor shoes. I sighed.

“Do you want a cigarette?” I asked.

“I don’t feel like playing.”

I added. ”I can get us some real ones.”

“That’s stupid. Promise me you will never smoke.”


“Say it!”

“I promise I will never smoke.”

“Tell me a story,” she said.

“My first day of school, ever, kindergarten,” I paused. “No one came to pick me up.”


“Yeah. The day ended. And all the other kid’s moms were getting them, but mine didn’t come.”



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