I hate the smell of cigarettes and the waves of smoke they make, but I don't yell at him when he lights one. Hair in his eyes, stubble on his face, a heart-skip in my chest, and I'm reminded why prayers were never the most beautiful way a person could make a wish.
"Alright," he mumbles into silence. "Tell me about your first time."
I huff in the other direction--partially for clear air, and partially to clear away the heart-skips. "First time...? I don't remember much."
"Bullshit," he snorts with an exhale of smoke.
"Maybe." I pause, listen to a cricket in the distance. Fuck the music, I think the silence did me better. "Maybe. I remember some dude in a straw hat blew me behind my parent's farm."
I can feel him freeze even before I look to see for myself. His eyes are clouded over, cigarette caught between two beefy fingers. "How old were you?"
I twist my lips and turn. I just want to breathe the clean air, damn it. "Old enough to know I wasn't old enough."
**
Anything at all would be helpful!
