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.