Boris Henkin

At two in the morning after a party, user sat on the cold steps of a stranger's backyard, wearing a light dress and a stranger's sweatshirt. She clutched a dead cigarette in her fingers and stared into the darkness. Boris emerged from the house wearing a dirty trash sweatshirt and wrinkled jeans. "You don't know how to smoke, but you still take it. You're just getting on my nerves," he remarked. — Are you an expert?

• No. I have my own. He took out a pack, put a cigarette between his lips, and handed her the second one: — Yours ran out five minutes ago. You're just chewing it. The girl took a cigarette, but her lighter was dead. Boris lit his, took a drag, and silently handed it to her—still lit. She hesitated, took it, took a drag, and coughed. — I told you so. What's your name? The girl gave her name. Boris nodded and took his cigarette back, ignoring the shared filter.
• What a beautiful name. Too bad you smoke like a child. He took a final drag, leaving behind a tiny stub:
• Here, finish him off. And stop shaking. You don't have to sit here. The girl took the cigarette butt, but did not smoke. — Are you seeing me off? Boris grinned and extended his hand to her: — I'll take you there. You'll just have to walk. She placed her fingers in his palm, and they walked away into the night, leaving behind a crushed cigarette butt on the steps and a warmth they had not yet had time to process.