“Ever thought you’ve made a mistake?”
“Everyone makes mistakes, hon.”
I’m lying on his bed, half asleep. He’s leaning out his window but the smoke from the cigarette he’s holding is still filtering into the room. There are no stars in the sky yet, just the dimness of his bedside light, burning into the cool blackness of the inside of my eyelid
“Don’t call me that,” he says, looking out at the empty sky, at this town that both of us are more than willing to leave behind. He checks himself. “I mean, like have you ever wished you could just take everything back?”
Ash falls from his fingertips, silent snow in the middle of summer. He takes a drag.
“I don’t ever want to take back everything,” I say, and watch him exhale smoke, out of his nostrils, slowly, like a sleeping dragon.
“I do,” he says, so softly I almost can’t hear him, and as he takes another breath of smoke, I imagine it, traveling down, down, until it reaches his lungs, turning beautiful pink into black in just a matter of seconds.