Conjugation by Jen Michalski art by Chris Nichols Things changed. Verbs, for instance. je croîs, tu croîs, il croît, ns croissons, vs croissez, ils croissant. Her textbook, Mes Amies, spine broken, rested against the table, along with her penciland copybook and coffee. She had recently started drinking it, at fifteen, when she entered the college track that year at school. Je crus, tu crus, il crût, ns crûmes, vs crûtes, ils current. Alex didn't like the taste of coffee at first. It reminded her of her parents, the acrid ghost of suburban death that lingered. But it helped her to study that extra hour, to make honors. She had bought her own mug from a novelty store in the mall. It had a picture of Snoopy on it, and when she wasn't drinking from it, she stored her change and loose bills. She measured another two cups of coffee into the filter. Someone tapped on the patio door. When she turned off the light in the kitchen, she could see Matt hunched like a bat, the pool behind him alight. Last summer he had been tall, a gangly spider, but now, October, he had stretched, filled out like a circus balloon, twisted every which way and the muscles in his arms, back, and neck pressed against his shirt. Nolan's not here, she said as he slid open the glass. Nolan was always out, and he slipped back home between the darkness and the dawn, a smear, red eyed and stale, smelling of alcohol. S'okay. What are you doing? He stepped into the dining room, shoes in his hands. She poured the water and flicked the switched and the coffee pot gurgled to life. What does it look like? Fuck French. You want to get high? He had cut his hair and she could see his eyes for the first time, green and flecked with some other color. His big chin sprouted hair, an inverted, grassy mountain. I'm studying. She dipped her spoon in the bag of sugar and angled it toward the empty mug. Come on. The basement doorway was dark, and steps creaked as he disappeared down them. She cupped her mug, hot, in her hands. He could reach the little window by the washer and dryer without stretching. He pushed it open, and the crickets chirped outside and inside. He fished the little glass bowl, blue and swirled, like a translucent bowling ball, out of his pocket and the zip lock bag and put the green crumbly pieces in delicately. She'd never smoked before although she assumed everyone thought she did because she was Nolan's sister. The pipe glowed as Matt inhaled and he held his breath, cheeks flat, eyes moving back and forth as he handed it to her. No, down your throat, not in your cheeks, he instructed after her cheeks grew fat, like a blowfish. He held the bowl by its bulb for her, like it would help, but she didn't object. She studied his fingers as she drew the smoke in, a little at first, then enough to make her feel like she was floating away from herself fast but going nowhere. You feel it? He laughed as she grabbed the washer by its sides. Come on. Outside they walked around the edge of the pool. Matt put his finger to his lips as he peeled off his clothes, in the cool, in the dark, and he stepped into the water in his boxers, arms flailing as he tried not to cry out, his eyes big, face red and smiley. She could see his hair plastered to his armpits, his goosebumps, as he parted the water with his arms. He lay on his back in the water and followed her with his eyes. Je veux peux dois, tu veux peux dois, il veut peut doit, nous voulons pouvons devons, vous voulez pouvez devez, ils veulent. The new language, she realized, would not be conjugated: quick stab breaths, pool water waving, freeway cars faraway, tree whisper secrets, whatever happened next. Read the interview. Jen Michalski's first collection of fiction, Close Encounters, is available from So New (2007), her second is forthcoming from Dzanc (2013), and her novella May-September (2010) will be published by Press 53 in October as part of the Press 53 Open Awards. Her chapbook Cross Sections (2008) is available from Publishing Genius. She also is the editor of the anthology City Sages: Baltimore (CityLit Press 2010), which won a 2010 "Best of Baltimore" award from Baltimore Magazine. She edits the literary quarterly jmww, and is cohost of the monthly reading series The 510 Readings in Baltimore. More of Chris Nichols' photography can be seen on Flickr. All content in SmokeLong Quarterly copyright 2003-2012 by its authors. Issue Thirty (December 22, 2010): Eulogy for Maria Mamani, Fire-eater by Ed Bull «» Language Barrier by Thomas Cooper «» A Goblet Falls by Barbara Diehl «» Life Lesson by Damian Dressick «» Yams by Gary Fincke «» How We Handle Our Midnights by Charles Hale «» The Corn by Kathleen Hale «» Amelia by Aubrey Hirsch «» Inside by Ashley Inguanta «» About Things That Are Lost and the Places That Things Get Lost Andrea Kneeland «» The Good Woman by Sara Levine «» Buckaroo by Ravi Mangla «» Her New Friend Jesus by Michael Meyers «» Conjugation by Jen Michalski «» Dairy Queen by Jennifer Pashley «» What Do You Do? by Dariel Suarez «» Up, Up and Away by Art Taylor «» Three Jokes by M. Thompson «» Between Budapest and Dying by Dean Marshall Tuck «» Crash-o-rama! by Chris Wiewiora «» Thirty-Word Story Contest Winners «» Interviews: Ed Bull «» Thomas Cooper «» Barbara Diehl «» Damian Dressick «» Gary Fincke «» Charles Hale «» Kathleen Hale «» Aubrey Hirsch «» Ashley Inguanta «» Andrea Kneeland «» Sara Levine «» Ravi Mangla «» Michael Meyers «» Jen Michalski «» Jennifer Pashley «» Dariel Suarez «» Art Taylor «» M. Thompson «» Dean Tuck «» Chris Wiewiora «» Cover Art "Holiday Wishes" by Marty D. Ison «» Letter From the Editors Interested in subscribing to SmokeLong's weekly newsletter? Click here. An email should be created. Send it as is, and you'll be subscribed. If the link does not work for you, send an email to imailsrv@smokelong.com with Subscribe slq-info in the body of the email (no subject is necessary). You'll receive updates detailing the release of new issues, new reading periods, contests, etc. We do not make our mail list available to anyone else.