A teenage boy in nice clothes sits on the curb of Elm, in front of the old factory. A few minutes later, a long-haired girl comes from around the corner, bundled up in a huge sweatshirt, jumpy already. 

He stands. “Want a cigarette?”

She flinches. “I can’t believe you just asked me that.”

“Right,” says the boy, and produces a lighter from the back pocket of his True Religion jeans, holding the flame to the cigarette in his mouth. 

“Don’t blow smoke in my face, I hate that,” says the girl and then adds, “Please.”

“When have I ever blown smoke in your face?”

The girl is silent.

The boy exhales smoke in her direction. “How’s your mom?” 

“The same.”

The boy smiles. “That’s too bad.”

“Only for you.” 

The boy takes a long drag on his cigarette. “Look I can’t help what happened. If anything—“ He stops.

“What? If anything it’s my fault right?” 

“No, that’s not what I was going to say.”

“Then what were you going to say?” 

“Look, I didn’t come out here to fight,” he checks his watch. “I have to be home in less than an hour.”

“So go.”

There is a long pause. The boy stamps out his cigarette and then lights another. 

“I don’t want to go. I love you, that’s why I’m here.”

“Don’t give me that—“ starts the girl but then she looks at him, her eyes sparkling with tears.

“You love me too, don’t start.”

“I love you,” says the girl, “So much.” 

“And I haven’t ever blown smoke in your face.”

The girl hesitates. “You’re right. You haven’t.”

The boy blows smoke in her face. “Good.”

They are quiet again.

“Is your car in the shop?” asks the girl, finally.

“No I got it out. Cost a shitload though. I don’t have any money.”

“What does that mean? What can we do now, then?” 

The boy shakes his head.

“Oh screw it.” The girl turns away angrily. “Give me a cigarette.”

He hands one to her, and lights it. She leans into him for a second. 

“I’m just saying I have no money for it right now.”

“So what will we do?” the girl asks.

“I don’t know.”

 “Can you ask your father?”

“He’s already mad about the car, I don’t want to make him more angry.”

“This is more important than a car.”

The boy stands. “I have to leave.”

“Aren’t you going to give me a ride?” 

He looks away, then throws a cigarette from his mouth as far as it will go.

“Alright.”

His car is very old. It was his grandfather’s before it was his. The girl dangles her cigarette out the window. 

“I’m cold,” she says as he starts the engine.

“Heater’s broken.”

“Of course.”

The boy thrusts the car into gear. “Sorry I don’t have a nicer car. Sorry I’m not as rich as some of the other boys you could have dated.”

“Oh, stop.”

“I’m just saying.”

“I thought you didn’t want to fight.”

“I don’t.”

The girl flicks her cigarette ash out the window. “Let’s go get drunk,” she says. When she turns back, her eyes are shining again.

“Are you sure?”

The girl smiles. “Of course.” 

“What do you think happens after you die?” asks the girl. She is sitting on the bleachers at the high school. The boy is tapping cigarette ash into an empty beer can.

“Nothing,” says the boy. He looks out at the pink and orange sky. “Blackness.”

“Nothingness?” the girl asks. “You don’t believe in God?”

“Not anymore,” says the boy. 

“Do you think that’s what happened then? It didn’t feel anything?”

“Jesus Christ,” the boy says. He stubs out his cigarette but he doesn’t reach for another. “Is that what this is about?”

“I just feel so guilty sometimes.”

“Well don’t. We did the right thing.” The boy leans his elbows on his knees and rattles the beer can. “It was all we could do.” 

“I love you.”

The boy doesn’t answer. 

“Did you hear me? I said I love you.”

“I love you too. I wasn’t listening.”

“You never listen,” says the girl quietly, but the boy doesn’t hear her.

“Do you want to go for a walk?” she asks.

“No,” the boy throws the beer can. It hits the top of the fence opposite them with a loud bang and then falls into the road.

“Look, I’m sorry I brought it up, okay? It’s just we never talk about it—“ She trails off in the middle of her sentence because of the look on his face. “Never mind, okay? Can we just go do something?”

“Just leave,” says the boy. His face is closed off. 

“I don’t want to lea—“ Again, she trails off at the look on his face. “Fine. Will you call me later?”

“Maybe,” says the boy. He can see the tears in her eyes as she walks away, but he says nothing.

When she is out of sigh he gets up, and begins to climb the fence. He hops it and runs into the street.