like a woman

“Whatcha doin’?” Taylor called out, popping her head into the back of the camper. She saw Jackson sitting in her usual spot, writing. “Why don’t you put that shit down for a while and come get high with me,” she said. “You’ve had your head buried in that journal all damn day.” Pulling out a freshly rolled fatty, she waved it in front of her girlfriend. “I think you’re gonna like this.” She grinned.

Jackson sat curled up on the floor, the coolest afternoon spot in the camper, her journal balanced between her knees. “I tell you what, girl,” she said, leaning back. “I’ll give you half of what you want. I’ll get high with you and then I’ll go back to writing.”

“Ah, shit,” Taylor groaned. “You’re working the best end of that deal. As usual.” She climbed inside, put her gear down, and pulled off her boots. “What you writing, anyway?” she asked. “Another letter to your mom?”

“Nah,” Jackson said. “Actually, I’m writing a story. Come on.” She patted the floor beside her. “Let’s fire that nasty thing up.”

Taylor lit the joint and gave Jackson the first serious hit. Jackson held it for a moment and then leaned over and kissed her, blowing the smoke deep into her lungs. “Umm,” Taylor sighed, exhaling. “Now isn’t this way better than writing?” She passed the joint to Jackson. “What’s your story about, anyway?”

Jackson took a long hit, holding it in as long as she could. She exhaled slowly, smiling. “It’s about us,” she said. “The first time we met.”

“Serious?” Taylor said, sitting up. “You’re writing a fucking story about us? Can I read it?”

Jackson laughed. “Oh, now all of a sudden girl’s interested in my writing,” she teased.

Jackson took another hit before passing the joint back to Taylor. “Tell you what,” she said. “I’ll let you read my story on one condition.” She laughed as Taylor groaned. “First, you have to write your own damn story and then you can hear mine. Instead of giving me so much shit about my writing, I think you should write something. Then we’ll swap. Come on, girl. Just try it.”

“I don’t know how to write a story,” Taylor complained. “You know I never passed a damn English class in my life.” She was just starting to get a nice buzz and now things were getting complicated. All she wanted was to get high and hang out for a while, not to have to work for it.

“That shit doesn’t matter,” Jackson argued. “You read all the fucking time and can’t shut up when you start telling your damn stealing stories. Girl, I know you can write.”

Jackson pushed her and laughed. “Ah, baby. Don’t go getting all attitudinal on me now. Just write about the same thing. Write about how we met. Just tell a story. Hell, I know you can do that.”

Taylor grabbed a pen and some paper and climbed up into the overhead sleeping bunk, ignoring the heat, taking the joint with her. She lay down on her back, stretched her legs out the full length of the bed, and sighed. She thought about the first time she had seen Jackson, how the girl had always caught her eye but they’d never talked. She thought about how she’d secretly wished it had been Jackson who’d cut up that trick who’d harassed her, but hadn’t known for sure. She thought about the first time they’d actually met, how she’d seen Jackson cornered in an ally without her knife. Okay, she thought. I can tell that story. She relit the joint and began to write.

“Okay,” Jackson said. “I’ve been hearing some scribbling going on up there. Plus, you’ve been seriously bogarting that joint. Come on. Let me see what you’ve got.” She climbed up on the bed and curled against Taylor, reaching for the paper. Snuggling in, her head on Taylor’s shoulder, she read:

I jumped before I thought. Came around the corner, seen one brother slug her, the other pull his blade. Seen her head snap back, hit hard against the wall. Seen her knife slide away, outta reach, glistening like a tease under the sticky green dumpster. I seen her knees buckle, high heel boots crumple, pink tube top doubling over a black vinyl miniskirt. I knew right away who it was. Yeah, I been watching that one real close. Tough skinny black girl. Tall, wiry, nothin’ extra, nothin’ wasted. Just enough.

“Damn, girl,” Jackson laughed. “That’s a trip. You write just the way you talk.”

“It’s cool, baby,” Jackson said. She reached over and put her hand on Taylor’s belly. “It’s your style. Ain’t nothing wrong with that. You just jump right in and get right down to business, that’s all. Sometimes writers just get, I don’t know, maybe a little more literary about it, that’s all.”

Taylor snatched the piece of paper back. “Literary,” she frowned. “What the fuck. Besides, this ain’t how I talk.” She read through her story, then pointed to a line. “Look at this,” she said. “Your knife was ‘glistening like a tease under the sticky green dumpster.’ Damn,” she laughed, putting the paper down and pulling Jackson on top of her. “If that’s not fucking literary, I don’t know what is.”

The girls lay together for a while, enjoying the buzz, enjoying the desire that flowed between them, the August air too hot for them to do anything about it until later that night. “I like that new smoke,” Jackson finally said. “Got a nice, sweet taste. How much did you get?”

“Enough,” Taylor grinned. She thought about the kilo she had stashed up under the wheel well of the ’62 Pontiac outside, about how many dime bags it would bring, how many days of not having to work the streets. “I thought you’d like it,” she said, knowing how much Jackson loved the new Mexican weed coming into town. “There’s still a good-size roach laying around here somewhere.”

Jackson reached over to pick up the remains of the joint, clipped it, and took a long hit while Taylor held the match. “Glistening like a tease,” she laughed, coughing on the exhale. “Girl, you are too fucking much.”