Double Take

I went to watch dook get beat tonight by my Heels. Midway through the first half I went outside to smoke a cigarette. A little drunk, I went up to the windowpane to fix my hair. In the reflection I saw another smoker, hidden behind a column where I couldn't see him, but perfectly visible in the reflection. I thought he looked too young to be smoking. I turned away from the window and sat on the brick wall across the sidewalk. The boy got up and slowly walked my way. I looked at him and thought he must be about 17. He wore a yellow hoodie, hiding most of his head and body, and longish, dirty blond hair covered his eyes. He was beautiful. Gorgeous. Captivating.

I looked at him for a few seconds. He looked back. He looked sick, maybe stoned. But more, he just looked sad. Like he badly wanted to collapse under the weight of his hoodie. "Smoking's good for the soul," he said. He was stoned. Drunk too. "I guess so," I replied. "Why else would you smoke," he said. He paused, looked at me and smiled, and said, "unless you want to die." I was silent. "Do you want to die?" he asked. "Maybe there are worse things," I vaguely mumbled in response. He looked down and ground a piece of paper nervously under his shoe. "Dying wouldn't be bad. There's nothing here to live for." He looked up. "Why not?" I quietly asked, still mezmerized. "I've looked for truth, and it's nowhere to be found here. Maybe I can find it in death," he said. He looked up then, smiled slightly, turned around, and walked back inside.

I never knew making cheesy, philosophical small talk with a depressed, drug-addicted teenager could be such a beautiful thing.