Brooks had known him as a child — fifteen maybe sixteen, some of the details were hazy at this point.
A midsummer's night at a traffic crossing, they'd sat to watch escalades go by. It was an annual gala at the old forts which had brought the stately-types into town. As such, this was the only occasion for which the town dressed up. Harry, the gas station owner, rid his pavements of moss. At the cafe, Gina brought out her chalkboard with a freshly painted mural. Taj sprung for new blades at his barbershop, knowing the visiting 50-somethings would drop by for a shave.
For Brooks and Clip, it was tradition to watch the convoy. This year, they'd smuggled vodka in with their jug of cranberry juice. Brooks had tried it first, only a few months prior — it made the world fuzzy, she recalled convincing Clip. In response, tonight, he had stuffed a red-filtered cigarette into the lining of his shoe, hoping to surprise her with it later.
It was pivotal really — the picking of vices, Brooks would describe to her therapist years later — "I don't regret it. Else I'd have nothing to talk to you about."
"I enjoy talking to you," she'd fill the silence while her therapist penned down notes.
Brooks took kindly to spirits. It was a morbid fascination at first — they'd offered her father some joy which neither his work nor family could, and before she turned fifteen (or was it sixteen?) he had walked himself into the snow-covered woods, never to be seen again. She figured they'd be a way into his mind.
The cigarette, she didn't care for — in part, because she'd seen it pulled out of a shoe, but more so the fact that it seemed to switch her brain on. Brooks didn't care for her thoughts on the best of days. She certainly didn't need to provide them more ammunition.
Slightly dejected — but not enough for it to show — Clip saw through the rest of the smoke himself, washing it down with tainted cranberry juice. He appreciated the surprise to his senses, but that's all there was to it – no deep-seated secrets or insecurities to unravel. No, Clip's curiosities were tied firmly to Brooks.
And so, as the convoy went by that year, he painted her a life where they'd cross over to the other side. Him in a button-down, her in a long dress, his hand around her waist, hers resting on his thigh — and through the tinted escalade, they'd glance at this intersection, reminding each other of just how far they'd come.
Brooks forced herself not to smile — she didn't think those words were really his. It was simply what you said under the romance of moonlight and the gentle breeze. "I think the view's nicer without the tints," she objected.