Surgeon General

“Why is he on stilts?” my little sister asked.

“Why not?” I snapped.

She stood there with her little pudgy fists on her hips, staring at the man walking down the road on stilts. Okay, maybe it was something you don’t see every day. Not that I was going to admit it to her.

“Why did he ask you to hold his cigarettes?” My sister loved to ask the why questions. It drove me batty. I wasn’t some fount of knowledge or anything. Still, this could be fun.

“He gave them to me because I know what to do with them.” This was going to be real fun.

“What?” Well, at least it wasn’t why again.

“I know what to do with them.”

“I heard you. What are you going to do with them?”

“You smoke them, moron.”

She frowned at me. “You can’t smoke.”

I glared back at her. “Yes, I can.”

“Why would you want to?”

I stuck my tongue out at her.

“You’re rude, Cheryl. Smoking is bad for you. The Surgeon General says…”

I hate fun. I gave her the rude finger and pulled a cigarette out of the pack. Held it like I saw the women on Broadway hold them. The women that mother always told us not to stare at.

“I’m telling mom!”

“See if I care.”

I started to walk away from the circus freak on the stilts. Maybe I’d go over to Broadway and see if they could give me a light.

Photo linked via Writing My Legacy.

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