By Jill Zero

The wall outside of the library is my favorite spot to smoke cigarettes. I like the coolness of the brick, which seeps through my shirt onto the surface of my skin, and I savor the rough texture against my fidgeting fingertips. It’s a silly privilege to lean there alone. No one bothers me. My mind drains the drivel and focuses solely on things that matter, such as senses and stars and solitude. Fine details manifest more rapidly when they’re unhindered by distractions.

Tonight is unfortunately not free from distractions, however. A group of people scatters and lines the sidewalk, fresh from the sports bar across the street. Two couples lean on each other in an attempt to disguise their level of drunk – unconvincingly, I might add – and one woman leads them beneath the streetlights like a pied piper who’s never worn three-inch platform heels. Her shiny silver shoes clomp and clack and bend her ankles at unsightly angles. I watch her with a sort of disgusted curiosity, wondering how she’s remained upright for half a dozen steps and estimating how many more steps it will take her to remove them and walk barefoot instead.

Ten, tops.

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