Echoes of Thursday

.First she saw black combat boots, then camouflage skinny pants tucked into the boots. Black short sleeved tee, and a black denim vest. Then she saw the head connected to the body.
His face was smooth caramel, only interrupted by a finely groomed licorice colored beard and moustache combo. His eyes shone in the dark, a hint of amusement in them. His hair is what really caught her attention, though. It stuck straight up, as if he let it grow however it wanted, and Celine was sure he did. It kind of reminded her of one of her favorite artists, Jean Michel Basquiat.
"You good?"
His query snapped her out of her thoughts, and she gave him a small smile.
"I'm good."
He smiled, and she felt something inside her that she couldn't really describe. Apprehension, mixed with intrigue; shall we say.
"You're pretty," he said in a slow drawl, with an accent she couldn't quite place, "You want to hit this?"
He held out a joint, its smoldering red tip sending thin plumes of smoke into the already dank air.
"No thanks, I'm not into that."