Script [Forest] (Hiatus)

[1] Release

It takes only a second to bleed black streaks on asphalt streets.

The blunt perched between my lips takes even less time to spark up.

A stark white sign suggests a careful speed of twenty-five but Asher is a speed machine. Thirty five seems more appropriate.

Home isn't far but there's something freeing about taking the extra mile through a winding road lined with trees. Rolling down my window allows the smoke to make its escape. It hasn't rained in three days but the over saturated, damp and earthy cologne of the forest permeates every sense.

By the time my street comes into view, the green between my lips has burned about two-thirds of the way. What remains gets tucked away for safekeeping and by then, I'm home.

Chan's waiting for me. He's always waiting for me. I don't greet him until after I do a quick spray down to rid myself of the loud odor. It's not him I'm worried about, it's my parents.

"My mom invite you over for dinner again?" I ask, opening the front door with Chandler in tow.

We rid ourselves of our shoes at the door and I discard my bag there as well. An overwhelming essence of oregano and freshly made pasta sauce welcomes us, a figurative finger beckoning us towards the kitchen.

"Maybe if you invited me over, she wouldn't have to," Chan whispers the joke between us, prompting a curt roll of my eyes.

"You live across the damn street, you don't need an invitation."

"Yeah...well. It's nice to feel wanted," Chan shrugs and throws a relaxed arm over my mother's shoulders.

She greets him as if he were her own, a chaste kiss on his cheek before gesturing for him to help set the table. I mean is your best friend really your best friend if your mom doesn't start putting them to work? Of course not. No words leave my mother's lips as the kitchen claims most of her attention. Hovering over a pot of boiling pasta creates a sparkling sheen across her forehead, dark brown curls clinging to her toffee skin.

Silas sits at the center island, a red crayon clutched between his stubby fingers. I ruffle his mess of brown curls but he's too immersed in his goal of coloring the ocean red to notice. I don't have the heart to tell him the truth.

A melodic chirp prompts me back to the door. The familiar faces of our other neighbors, Naomi Upshur and her daughter Yana greet me fondly.

Looks like we're expecting a full house for dinner tonight.

There's a sheet of plastic draped over Naomi's almond colored arm. It's for me. "I finished your dress for the play. I know it's still a ways off but I just wanted to make sure you liked it."

Naomi's an exceptionally  gifted seamstress so I'm already convinced I'll love it either way.

Thanking her with a courteous smile and hug, I shut the door behind our guests and take the stairs to my room, two at a time. My mother's been cleaning again. While I'm grateful for the fresh sheets and folded laundry, the fact that my sacred place now smells like the cleaning isle in every grocery store hardly makes it worth it.

A quick shower offers me a more invigorating redolence of Warm Vanilla Sugar and removes any stubborn traces of weed.

Two bundles of fur cut through my legs and down the stairs the second I'm out in the hall. The cat hates me because he's a literal prick and the dog is solely motivated by food. In other words, they could care less that I'm home.

Cotton fabrics engulf me but not until I lather myself from top to bottom in shea butter. I'm reckless when it comes to many things but never my skin. I finish just in time and proceed to complete the last of my preparatory dinner rituals.