“160 minutes. How long is that? Two and a half hours-ish?”
I watched you run your fingers through your hair, the cigarette glowing out of the darkness of the evening.
“I’ve had damn near 40 smokes tonight.”
Tears filled my eyes, welling and building up until I could no longer contain them. I turned away, letting them fall, weeping quietly over your squandered time. A softness at the sight of me must have over come you, for I hardly expected you to make me face you, embrace you. I hardly expected to watch you crush the pack of cigarettes in your fist so I could see, and I didn’t expect you to throw them away and claim it was because they made me cry. The stars that night shone a little brighter, I thought.
Months later, laying in the bed of a truck surrounded by blankets we would be together, watching the night sky free itself from the interferance of city lights. We would both take a drag and then blow out smoke, watching it spiral up into the stars, the glow from the embers lighting our faces in the quiet darkness.
And we couldn’t decide if we wanted to be there with each other, or some one else.