“Snakes don’t cry over their skins,” she says, exhaling an expertly round puff of smoke. Her eyes go sharp and sideways. I can see from my periphery that she’s cut her gaze toward Cheeks. “Don’t mourn what you outgrow.” I take the drink in a single swig and thank her again before leaving, but this time I don’t mean it. ’Cause I bet snakes do mourn their skins. I bet they crawl back inside sometimes, wishing they could fit. I bet they rub their old skins all over, trying to cover themselves in the smell of home. That’s all growth is, getting too big to stay somewhere that used to feel good.
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