And there was that one night at the 8-ball. We drank Old Style and smoked like 600 cigarettes before you finally started getting into it. I was playing pool while you were talking shit until you almost got me into a fight with these kids that looked just like Crips. I thought I had smoothed everything out, but while I was admiring your hips I got pounced. You put a cigarette between your lips while some bastard kid put his fist on mine. You sighed as you emptied your drink and looked put out while I got bounced out. We sat there on the curb and let 4am sneak up on us like you always sneak up on me. You looked up at the light polluted sky and said that nights like this got you feeling less celibate. We kissed there. Your mouth tasted like an ashtray filled with Coney chips. Mine must’ve tasted like cheap beer and defeat, which to me, tasted like a busted lip.
Gregory Heaney is the author of literally thousands of database entries that have almost no impact on your everyday life. He also writes short stories, is an Arsenal supporter, and likes to smoke.