By Elizabeth Kohlhaas

We roll filterless cigarettes in the midnight dark. Johnny is uncharacteristically quiet, his Sinatra-blue eyes never leaving his lap, where he gently taps tobacco between the edges of the sheet. Human curiosity longs to know where the new scar on his lip is from, and why he’s started cutting his hair so short. I’ve learned better than to ask.

It’s been years since we were in this shed together, burning up every penny in our piggy banks, but I remember the dynamic: don’t speak unless spoken to, don’t ask if you can have one, tap, roll, lick, repeat. He finishes rolling his first cigarette and sets it aside. It doesn’t matter that the tobacco is mine, hidden carefully in the rafters where mama can’t find it, just like it doesn’t matter that the fist-shaped hole in my bedroom wall is his. I never plastered it up. Felt like admitting he was gone. Felt like admitting I was happy to see him go. I see Johnny the way mama sees ghosts: if you don’t acknowledge them, they can’t hurt you. They can slam drawers as much as they want, but they “sure as hell ain’t hopping into my bed with me.” Johnny and I shared a womb once. I think that’s about as much acknowledgment as he’s ever deserved.

The ladies in town used to tell me that twins can never be too far away. Even if he’s across the continent, they would say, he’ll never get further than you can throw him. I used to laugh at that. A blessing and a curse, I’d toss over my shoulder at them. Back when I believed in blessings at all. Johnny has a way of deconstructing every belief you’ve ever had. He’s scrawny as ever, his cheekbones poking through the sides of his face like shelves. He still takes up all the space in every room he steps into, sucks up every breath before you can take it. Some things never change.

He’s rolled three by now, and lights up his first. I’ve barely started—I’m out of practice. He finally looks at me—gives me a cruel, slow smile, the corners of his mouth stretching around the cigarette. The fear that bubbles in my stomach is familiar—almost comfortable. He reminds me of the mean old dog the neighbors tell you to keep away from but you can’t help to look at. I pull my eyes away so as to not get bitten. Tap, roll, lick, repeat.

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Elizabeth Kohlhaas—pride and joy of Indianapolis, Indiana—is currently studying literature at Bennington College in Bennington, Vermont. Her work has previously appeared in So It Goes & The Cloudscent Journal. She also won a Catholic school poetry contest in the 7th grade. She is fond of the Gospel of John, killer whales, and the life she has been given.