Crunch

You sigh as you lean back against the windshield of your car, legs sprawled out over the brown paint-chipped hood as you look up at the night sky. A cigarette burns brightly between your lips, and you pluck it away to puff out a neat little ring of smoke. Your brother taught you how to do that before he died. Fucker was drinking-and-driving, the dumb shit. 4 years.

But tonight is not about him. You miss him, but he's gone.

You sigh as you slide off your car, combing freckled fingers through your short crop of bubblegum-pink hair, and toss the butt of your cigarette on the ground. You're about to grind down on it with the heel of your boot when you notice a little flower. It's a smashed-up gladiolus, as pink as your hair. You remember from when your brother taught you about flowers and their meanings, that the gladiolus means "strength of character."

You smile a little, feel the iron-grey ring in your lip with your tongue, and stoop to pick up the tattered remains of the flower before smushing your cigarette into the pavement. "Gotta get some more smokes, Palloix," you remind yourself as you get into your car, pouring the crushed flower into a cupholder before fiddling with one of the many charms on your keyring. It's the sigh for Pluto, like a capital P and L mixed together. You'll always say it's a planet.

Focusing, you start your car and ease it onto the road, leaving one more cigarette butt on the sidewalk of that old parking lot and one less crumpled flower.