Re: Airstream: Amy/Si
Si still counted to seven. All the time. It was hard for him to cope—when he wasn't high. He relied on childish and superstitious things, but he'd learned a long time ago that, whatever anyone else said, there was something after death, there were things that couldn't be understood or explained. So, why wouldn't counting to seven have the protective effect he imagined?—But, like I said, he wasn't thinking about that at all. He wasn't even thinking about the musicals, about what it could all mean. In his memory, Amy'd always smelled like girly things. At least once she started dousing herself in them around puberty. The lavender and vanilla were reminders of that. He just smelled like cigarette smoke.
"Maybe he blocked out all the time he was at home." It wouldn't surprise Si, because few things did. But, he was teasing. He folded his free hand onto his stomach, holding the carcass of the cigarette butt, letting Amy keep his bicep as her pillow. He was smiling as soon as she started her excited read-through of memory lane.—This time, though, the smile waned, then came back. He knew who she'd written about—he knew her ghost, though he'd never seen her himself. He turned his head to watch Amy's face as she read, only chuckling at the end. "Don't be jealous," he teased her. "She wasn't reading me poems." He grew a little more serious. He tucked his chin to his chest and looked down toward his other hand. He almost wanted to ask if she still saw her. Then again, he almost didn't want to know. Instead, he asked: "Were you out last night?"