Lung cancer,” James said, as if telling me he liked toast. Wheat toast. Just like that, thoughts of my troubles with Jocelyn receded. “Jesus Christ, James, are you shitting me?” I asked, flicking my smoke to the sandy pavement, inches from the outer reaches of his yellow lawn. I thought, That’s it. I’m quitting. “I wish I was, my friend. I wish I was.” He soothed his temples with the tips of his fingers. “That’s horrible. Does my sister know?” “I haven’t figured out how I’m going to tell her.” “Fuck me.” “Yeah, it’s pretty bad. I should have taken better care of myself when I was young.” “But you’re only thirty-eight, for chrissake.” I was thirteen years younger than James, but he could have easily pounded the living shit out of me. He was six feet two and looked like an off-brand version of the guy on the Brawny paper towel package. When he was on the upside of a sneeze, his lungs swelled like those of a whale preparing to dive. He fixed boats for a living.
What do You think about It Feels So Good When I Stop?
