An Extra Pump of Sugar

Chapter 19

I passed the joint back to Jay, matching his smile.

The two of us sat on his apartment balcony, enjoying the last of the dwindling sunlight and the weed Theo sold me back in February. It was the perfect antidote for my uncle's body aches and my own insufferable period cramps, and I hadn't seen the man this bubbly since his remission.

I wasn't sure how much longer we had before the cancer consumed him, but I'd do my very best to give him the most enjoyable, herb-induced life I could before he was back on an IV.

"You still haven't picked a theme?" he rasped, taking another leisurely hit. "Isn't the semester half-over?"

"I've got a bunch of random portraits done. But I can't seem to commit to one idea." White smoke split my lips. "I really want to do something impressive, you know? Something impactful."

Nothing pained me more than the thought of writing an impassive essay on a project I was embarrassed to showcase. I refused to contribute to the dumpster fire of meaningless art in the world. I couldn't stand the idea of society confusing my work with something your average Boomer could capture on their iPhone, or what an AI could render in ten seconds. There was no half-assing this one.

Jay hummed. "That's the ugly underbelly of perfectionism, ain't it? Procrastination." He shook his head. "You just gotta pick something and roll with it."

"You make it sound so easy."

"Isn't it? Shoot for an A, not a Pulitzer."

Maybe that was achievable for someone like Elijah; he had his car project dialed already. But I wasn't satisfied with simplicity. Not creatively. Not professionally. And apparently, not romantically, either. 

"If it's so simple, then what would you do?" I murmured. "How would you illustrate the concept of misconceptions?"

"Me?" He mulled over the idea for a few seconds, inhaling another plume of carcinogens and a mild dose of THC. "Personally...I think I'd portray the trials of shitting."

I snorted, rolling my eyes at the overhang above us. "I'm being serious, Jay."

"So am I." He raised his leathery hands in the air, painting me a portrait across a backsplash of empty parking spaces. "Consider a series of diptychs. The first photo, you zoom in on a person's face, so you don't know what kind of pain they're in. Could be physical. Could be psychological. And for the next photo, you zoom out, only to discover they're on the toilet!" He barked a laugh. "Ha! Now that'll throw your professor for a loop."

I plucked the joint out of his hand, but it was impossible to bury my grin. "Absolutely not."

His chuckles made the porch a little warmer, and I savored the sound. A lighthearted, giggly Jay was probably my favorite thing in this whole world. Especially when it wasn't accompanied by a hoarse, painful cough.

He adjusted his baseball cap over his head and the thin forest of hair he'd grown in the past week. Then he shot me a teasing grin. "So, what's his name?"

I crushed the joint in the cigarette tray between our cast aluminum chairs. "Whose?"

"The guy who's got you smiling like that."

I feared my dismissive chuckle was not at all convincing, so I stomped on his blooming assumptions. "Did Mary Jane transition? Because she's the only reason my cheeks hurt."

He tutted at my response. "It started before the weed." Perceptive brown eyes looked me over. "You've never been this confident. Cough it up."

"All I'm coughing up is smoke." He pressed his lips together, and I sighed. Fine. "It's not like some romantic thing, okay? We're just...hanging out."