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You stand opposite me, leaning into the wall as if to escape my gaze, and take another drag on your cigarette. You say nothing and exhale silently.

A memory flicked on and off in my mind. You, sixteen, in short cut-off jeans, summer tanned legs, wearing your brother's white t-shirt stuffed into the front of your shorts, tattered faded converse and that Yankees hat you never took off that summer. We were sitting in the back of my dad's pick-up waiting for him to pay the fee at the dump. You handed me a cigarette, dug into your pocket for a lighter and rested your forearms on my bent knees while you lit my cigarette. When you pulled away to light your own I almost cried. It was as if we'd been going steady all summer and then you broke up with me. The simple loss of your warm tanned arms touching my knees was devastating.

Watching you now, your long fingers moving to tap the ash off the end of your cigarette, a little bit of that loss comes back to me and something sharp presses against my chest.