He smokes like a man should. Drinks like a man should. I was 15 in my hot tub again last night, taken in as he drank in the beginning of something between us, for the hundredth time again. Cigar clenched between his teeth, smoke billowing out of his mouth, he took a drink and grinned. When he pulled out his Cigar to exhale, the movement of his arm made his collar bone show up like it didn’t before, and I was caught up in being needed in a place that doesn’t know me.

The lights in Binghamton died as I headed East on highway 17. I beat the dash because tonight, this place and I still aren’t getting along. I don’t know that anyone here understands me anymore than they did when I arrived. The darkness closed in like only empty miles of highway can. Empty miles of conversations, choices, nights gone right – nights gone wrong. I passed his street, and wished I could go start a story. But I know how it ends – untidy, unraveled – “you’re not okay with it all baby? I am.”………….cont @

http://www.thestorytellersarms.com/index.php/2010/04/boy-from-the-stone-quarry/