5alvani

My sister took a short drag from her cigarette, and placed it roughly in the ashtray. I admired the way she smokes... confidently, with an air of masculinity. And not compulsively. She's the type who can pick up a cigarette a couple nights of the week, and not feel the impetus toward smoking every hour on the hour the next day. As I swirled my cocktail straw in my glass, I relished in the irony of the moment. Here we were, on a breezy Los Angeles night, touting about religion and the after-life, while sipping on libations and puffing on Parliaments.
"I'm not afraid of death," she declared. I looked at her wistfully; her hair was tied back perfectly in a ponytail, and her hands were placed assuredly on the table in front of her. My hands were fumbling around the chair, searching for a lighter.
She's not afraid of death because daily she's investing in something. I'm a spendthrift, both in the economical and spiritual sense. I dabble into philosophies and religions, letting my toes mingle in the waters of ambivalence. But she's onto something. Her feet stand on something solid, without question. Unwavering in her Christianity, she stands in no judgment of my life or actions. Her blue eyes are prophetic in their pragmatism. What will take me a million mistakes to deduce, she has figured out from the get-go.
"I'm dying," I murmur to myself as I look in the mirror, well past the midnight hour. I phone Farian and burden him with my constant anxiety. After a couple of drinks and a benzo, however, anyone can feel relaxed. But I'm sick of being afraid of death; my sister's attitude is emblematic of how I want to live my life.
Now she's in Dallas, and I'm pining until I move to Philadelphia. We'll have casual conversations on the phone, but it isn't quite the same. I can't see my reflection her in lucid, blue eyes. Her naturally curly hair can't balance my cold straight hair. And I can't watch her as she smokes, holding the filter in a way that says, "it's better this way."