I sat down on the curb next to the boy and lit my cigarette.
He looked rough, straight black hair all ruffled, jeans dirty and ripped, an extremely grubby jacket with leather and silver fittings that would have been very nice had it been clean. Pinned to the jacket was a golden five-pointed star, almost like that of a sheriff.
I held the box out and gestured for him to take one. He obliged gratefully.
I watched him, intrigued, as he removed a blue Bic biro from his pocket and proceeded to write something attentively on the paper cylinder, I attempted to subtlely lean across and look at the writing but before I could read he lifted it up and placed it elegantly between his lips. He lit it and took a long, deep drag. I saw the glint in his eye as the nicotine entered his bloodstream, the glint of an addict getting a hit for the first time in a long, long while.
He exhaled.
“So,” I asked, in a careful, calculated manner. “What's your story?”
The boy laughed.
It was a real, happy laugh. It made me feel warm against the cool autumn air.
“Fuck,” he replied. “Where do I start?”
We sat in silence for a minute, enjoying the colors of the falling leaves on the other side of the road.
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