I was just standing on my back deck as I smoked a Doral Lights 100. I was ruminating over the fact that my grass needs mowing and I wondered if the mower would crank after a winter stored under the house. Joyce came clamoring out her side door talking to her clothes.
"Dammit! Dammit! Dammit!" she exclaimed. "All I do is laundry."
Her washer and dryer are outside in a closet by her carport. She didn't see me standing there until she looked up.
"Oh, hey," she sheepishly said. "I don't normally cuss like that."
"Yeah, sure," I thought remembering all the nights she told me with expletives that she hates my mother, hates her sister, and hates her own daughter.
I smiled and asked her if she felt okay.
"Actually, I am doing poorly," Joyce said and a tear rolled down her cheek. "I just can't get everything together. These clothes. Cooking meals. It is all too much."
"I feel the same way about having to mow my lawn," I replied, and I did. It felt overwhelming.
"You got a cigarette?" Joyce then asked, wiping the tear from her face as she walked into my fence.
"I've got a whole carton you can have sweetheart," I told her.
We sat down on my back steps feverishly telling each other all our problems as we chain smoked cigarette after cigarette. We both felt better and better sharing what has been ailing us. Joyce and I let it ALL out. We bitched. We moaned. Until we were soon laughing in between drags of those aromatic smokes.
"I feel like I should pay you for this like a therapist," Joyce told me with a smile.
I burst out laughing and gave her the most heartfelt hug. Our little bitch session was not for naught.