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Pretend We’re Dead
High as fuck. Running under the train trestles along Commencement Bay. The night is dark, and it belongs to us. Everyone else is asleep or in their own bubble that is outside of our high. We are invincible. It’s cold outside, but that doesn’t matter because we’re moving, and we’re smoking, and we’re thrilled.
And, we’re always aware that we maybe look really fucking great, and we are sexy people, and that helps make us be invincible because sexy people can live forever, most likely. I’m wearing my “Fuck Me! I’m From Tacoma” shirt, no bra. Fuck it, fuck it alllllllllll!
Roads that are usually packed with sad, chugging dirty cars are empty and clear, well lit throughout South Tacoma. It’s beautiful. We wind around from the North end through Fircrest until we’ve wound around to South Tacoma Way, and we pull up to Bob’s Java Jive.
We are giddy. And, being together, on the same wavelength, always feels like flying.
