We're not too sure

My lungs feel like wet denim. Mishappen, heavy, and hard to carry around.
But they'll dry out, she said, licking the mess that was her popsicle.
He hated her for eating like a child, eating a child's food on the street.
Maybe, he said. But wet denim stays damp for so long.
Do you have to be so cryptic?
But of course, the creamsicle matched her dress, her sunglasses, her eyes, the shoes, the way light hits the high windows and the water and suffuses this neighboorhood with light.
John?
I don't know if it'll dry out, but why the hell do you have to be like that?
Like what? You're the one who's morbid.
No, I'm a realist. My lungs are weighing me down. You're the pastiche.
John- he began to walk away, hands curled in pockets like hedgehogs- John, you don't even know what that word means.
yes, but, I sound like I do, and you have creamsicle on your chin and no one can see your eyes so they're more inclined to trust me and my wet lungs then you and your.