Tully is a former Chicagoan who was recently published in the Windy City Queer anthology.
“No,” I said. “I don’t smoke, you still smoke?”
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Cigarettes is my uncle in brown slippers heating up alphabet soup for me in the south-side house we’ve had for 28 years. Cigarettes is breaks at my first waitressing job at Clarke’s. Cigarettes is singeing my eyelashes with a lighter that jumped to reach that 104-degree sun at the Morse Red Line stop. You could smoke on platforms then, remember? Before that unidentified 30-year-old man was electrocuted on the tracks, you could get away with smoking between the cars screaming Spice Girls while the world hammered under your combat boots, but I know you didn’t try that.
You said, “How old are you now?”
But also my first love is the beautiful stubborn photographer I’m in limbo with, between breaking up and starting a home. Her dog’s name is Mateo.
Really, I just wanted to tell you, Elsa, thanks for hanging out. I had the best time.
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