I'm just as scared as you are. Sometimes, when you hand me that cigarette, I worry about what I'm breathing in.
We smoke behind things, in front of things. We're rarely ever even in the place we paid cover to get into. I hear muffled music inside. The air is so much less stifling outside, though ice-cold. I feel crystals form on my cheeks. You squint at the sky.
"Brian is such a little bitch," you say.
"Yeah, I know."
"Think you'll still go home with him?"
"Ha! Well, he's fun to have around."
"Yeah, I'd still go too," you say through the smoke.
I look at your clothes. I think you're more stylish than me.
You squint into the street now. "You know, one of these days, your tits are just going to float you away like balloons."
I turn the lighter over and over in my hand. Start to put it in my pocket, but decide the muffle-song doesn't sound that great, and we both light up another cigarette.
"Yeah, well, what does that make yours? Anchors?" I try to see which blinking light you're staring at.
"That doesn't really make me feel better," you say.
"Yeah, me neither," I say.
You pace a tiny trail and duck your face in your scarf while you stub out the butt along the wall. I think I've located what light you were looking at.
"Do you want to go in?"
"Not really, but we should," You're in a squinting mood tonight. Either that or it's so cold your eyeballs are freezing.
"We don't have to," I say, slipping the lighter in my pocket.
"Eh, it's fucking cold."
"Yeah," I look at the door. You look at the door.
"Think I'll find some asshole to buy me a drink?"
"As usual, but then you'll have to deal with an asshole." I hold my pockets to my body to warm my hands.
"Yeah, but it's not a huge deal." You reach for the door and we head inside.