Bus Stop

The first itch.

It hit me, like an itch. It was small at first, the feeling. A really frustrating itch, but a small and easy one to avoid at the moment. I tousled my hair, I adjusted my sleeves, and sat uncomfortably on my boyfriend’s couch. It’s gray, he is next to me, and his living room has a big window, plants draped along the sides of it.  

The second itch.

I noticed my head began to pound. I grow more uncomfortable. It was a pounding that was about to shatter my brain from the inside. Again, I ignored it. Let it subside. I took in the curves of the glass of water I was holding, I moved my toes around to focus on something else. This time, I got up from the couch and moved to peer out the window. 

The third itch.

It was getting harder to ignore, it turned into an aggressive feeling, one that I could not escape from. The pounding grew into a vigorous slamming, and I started to tug at my sleeves again, curled up on my boyfriend’s couch, attempting to pay attention to the movie. A movie was on, with aliens running in the forefront, all I could think about were my itches. No blast in the background took away from the pounding in my head. 

The fourth itch.

It was the fleeting pain in my stomach, traveling and pulsing, one that sent me over the edge, the one that with all the rest, made me succumb. Could I really only withstand four itches? Or can I do more? I try, I wait, I suffer. But how much longer will I last?

The fifth itch.

My hands began to shake a little, but it’s fine, at least I tell myself. It’s okay. I feel irritated. I feel bothered. But is it really me that’s bothered? It can’t be just me.

By the sixth itch.

My roommate’s boyfriend took out his vape. My heart stood still. I asked for it, and it all went away. 

I’m starting over, I think to myself. Will it be as hard as last time? Will I actually do it?

The new one.

Feeling the breeze of the wind Downtown, I stroll along with my friend. She’s wearing a blue fuzzy coat, one that is all too familiar. She is talking, with a strong voice, one that spills into the bustling streets, but cannot be ignored. In the night, the fluorescent lights are bright, the rainbow lights flashing from a nearby window taunting me. I remember staring out my boyfriend’s apartment window, bringing to mind the itches while taking in the ivy covering the brick wall of the building next door. With the wind that goes past, the idea of a vape lingers in my mind

The first new itch.

It doesn’t end, does it? I began to feel stiff as we walked past a smoke shop. The glow in my face, the alternating lights from the OPEN sign. The wind and the light drizzle continue to pick up. We scurry away, as if running from the thing that we both miss the most. My fingers begin to tingle, a bit with excitement, a bit with misery, but was it from the cold? I fight the feeling. 

The second new itch. 

She keeps talking. Great, I think. A distraction. But the sensation begins to move to my head again, with an excruciating headache that begins to unravel. I rub my mittens together to stay warm. I look down at my feet and shuffle a little as we wait for our bus. The rain is coming down harder, the itches come back, as if the rain is washing them back onto me, not off. I start to think more and more, with my friend’s voice being distant. Not the booming voice from before. It fully engulfs me, the desire, the need. I ask her if we can turn back. 

The third itch.

She stares at me blankly. Turn around? No, not really. You shouldn’t go into that smoke shop. You quit? Remember? I shrug. I did it. It’s hard, but so can you. My nausea returns, I can’t tell if from her honesty or from my cravings. I began to tug at my sleeves again.

The fourth itch.

We’re on the bus now. It’s cramped. There’s a kid in the back, vaping. How does he not care? I think to myself. How does he not care for his health? Or, frankly, about the others around him? Hypocritical of me. My friend’s voice distracts me as she talks about her boy troubles. Again, it’s drowned out by my headache, nausea, and tingling my fingers. I look back at the boy on the crowded bus. Red hat, black jacket, nice shoes I remember. 

The last itch.

I remember. That boy. I think about him often. How he inhaled on the bus, exhaling in front of all of those people. It made my skin crawl. I can’t explain why. My friend paid no mind to him. That young boy. This is my stop I say, and hop off, with an abrupt, but meaningful goodbye. I step outside, the young boy following. He hits his vape again. I stare. An older man waits at the stop for the next bus. You know, young man, he begins to say. The boy looks up at him with big eyes, concerned but also curious. My son has a collapsed lung ‘cause of those things! You’re better off without ‘em! He was in the hospital for weeks, I was visiting and in so much pain. The young boy shrugs. I continue to stare. All of my immediate thoughts disappear. I sat at the stop for a bit. Just taking in the interaction. The young boy shrugged and left. The old man got on his bus. And I am left thinking, and itching.