Poetry & Photography by Arsal Asal 

I met Emerald on a cold San Francisco night. Initially planning to become tipsy, I ended up becoming so drunk that I had to step out and take some fresh air. As I leaned my back against the brick wall, my eyes closed, tuning into the low frequency song that I was able to hear from the bar, I was suddenly awoken by the parched husky voice of a green haired woman: “can I bum one?”

Forgetting that I don’t carry cigarette packs because I identify myself as a “casual smoker,” I nodded my head. As I searched my pockets, I realized I didn’t have any. Then I realized I wasn’t smoking, either. I stood there confused––her large blue eyes gazing me. Before I could say anything she looked at me and went “Jeez, it’s okay. I can bum one off someone else, you just looked like a smoker.” 

I watched her walk away and drunk-me became fixated on the idea of finding a cigarette, while lazy me was way too insecure to ask around. Frustrated, I leaned back against the wall again. My friends came out to check on me but I refused to go back inside. I was enjoying the breeze and the idea of going back into the bar was suffocating.

In my own intoxicated world, softly singing the tunes, I heard her voice again. “Here you go.” I see her holding a lit, half-smoked cigarette. I would have sprinted out of happiness––like Charlie did when he found that damn golden ticket––and I’m pretty sure my mind did sprint a mile in that moment. I took a drag.

That night, in front of a local bar, this woman shared her story with me. To this day, I’m still not able to remember the details. She was hurt––deep. She poured her heart into a drunk stranger because it was carefree. She didn’t rely on me keeping her secret, the terms didn’t apply, we were both drunk, and she was right. 

Two weeks later as I searched my laptop for an assignment, I found a poem, written by me, the night of. As I read what I wrote, I realized a number of things: 1. her name was not Emerald, 2. I am a smoker in denial and 3. I probably needed to change my friend group, since I had basically chosen chatting with a stranger over hanging out with my friends.

But at the end of the day, in my own way, I tried to write a tribute to her past and, in a way to celebrate her existence. For that, she will always have a special place in my own existence. This piece, then, is for her––written my drunk self. Thank you, Emerald.