Twelve

Ten.

He probably knew, when he came back. He himself sat on the lake and smoked when he appeared. He asked, since when he was smoking and he answered, that it were a lot of months already but he would've known if he wouldn't have been busy sticking his tongue in that girls throat. He sat down next to him, sighing and for a moment it felt like the old times again but then he looked at the cigarette in his hands and the other boys hands next to him on the wood of the pier they were sitting on and nothing felt like it had ever been.

That's over. And you started the ignoring, the other boy said.

But you kept it up. He couldn't believe he made this about him now.

I'm sorry but I didn't know what pissed you off.

You didn't even try to find out.

I didn't know how. This whole conversation was rubbish.

Bullshit.

Probably.

Certainly.

I'm sorry.

Good for you.

Can I have a drag?

Their hands brushed together as he passed the cigarette. He got it back, watched as the smoke streamed out of his mouth and away in the dusk. He pressed the cigarette out and wanted to get up.

Don't. He held his arm back.

Why not?

I'm sorry.

You've already said that.

I still am.

What do you want?

To talk.

He didn't. He wanted to do something else that he didn't get the chance to do all the months before. Maybe he now got it, but he didn't took it. Instead, he left.