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Robson's Curb

She is bound to ask me why I’m walking the edge of the sidewalk, staring down at the curb. There aren’t too many explanations other than ‘crazy’ for this kind of behavior, and if I don’t find a fix quick, I’ll start shaking.

I don’t care about my vow — I will smoke the last hit off a half-done cigarette, tossed out by an eager clubber yanked back inside by her friends. I need a defense, though, because she has got to be wondering what I’m doing. “The red lights reflect these puddles like lava, running up against the curb. I’m hypnotized.” What the hell did I just say?

Oh… she’s turning her head a bit.

“Maybe a volcano just erupted up in Whistler,” she jokes back from her flowing chassis of a body, gliding along the street. A sweet girl’s pity or a coy flirt?

Anyway, who knows, I’ve now got my alibi and somewhere along this curb is a soiled paper wrap lying defeated against the pavement, it’s poisonous red innards hidden by an ash cap. If I stay vigilant, I’ll give it a proper cremation.

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