Do you remember where we used to stand? By the bench in the courtyard, near the vending machines?
Me and the rest of the cool kids would take draws from our cigarettes and smash them into the ground before a teacher came by. We looked like we were ten and pretending to be adults, didn't we? The way the cigarette smoke drifted up from our pale lips and we'd cough quietly so no one would notice how painful it is to be that cool. You and I, we owned the place, and then you ran it into the ground for the both of us.
I can still feel the embarrassed stares of all of our friends boring into my forehead while you laughed and said that we had the world under our feet and we were the ones who made it turn. You said that while you introduced us to one of your yuppie friends, a girl with brown hair and thick black glasses. She talked about how she had just read a book by Franz Kafka, I can't remember which one.
I didn't care.
You went off with her, didn't you? No one would know if she was gone. Is that why you chose her? Right now, are you sitting in the car in some distant state while she reads you Franz Kafka and laughs at the jokes she doesn't understand?
We still stand in the same spot, but it feels empty. The smoke doesn't filter out quite the same way, and everyone's been coughing louder since you left.
