ON THE FRONT STOOP AT DAWN
by prudence brooks
ON THE FRONT STOOP AT DAWN Andréa and I huddle close, barefoot and shivering under the porch awning, sharing an American Spirit cigarette. We speculate about which of our other friends may or may not hook up with each other, and I play Fiona Apple from my green cordless speaker. Inside the house, the party has tapered off into four people sitting cross-legged in a circle, passing around the last Twisted Tea and arguing goodnaturedly over who will go to the corner store for more alcohol. I don’t even drink much anymore, but hearing this through the open doorway, I offer to make the run. I just don’t want anyone to go home. My friends and I have been clinging to one another more closely lately. We are quickly coming into ourselves and simultaneously worrying that we are too stagnant. Our nights have been bleeding into mornings, our starlight tequila shots fermenting into sunrise cuddles and clementine-tinted confessions. The older we get, the more afraid we become. Jer rises from the circle on the floor and joins me by the front door. Do you want company on the way to the corner store? I downloaded a new audiobook about the Andrea Doria. It’s much too short of a walk for even an episode of an audiobook, and he knows this, but he just wants to come along. It’s been four hours since he has had his own beer, and I pretend not to notice his tattooed hands trembling. It’s not my job to judge my friends, and besides, we had this discussion once. He knows how much I care. Beyond that, what he does with his body is none of my business. We zip up the shabby 90s rain jackets we found at Goodwill together and clasp palms, venturing into the Portland rain for just one more 12-pack. One more box of liquid youth. A couple more hours of closeness.