Max

You feel like the world is moving too fast, and you can't keep up. Your desire to become independent and mature is dashed by problems, schoolwork, deadlines, and personal failures. Confused and tired of pretending to be in control, you decide to go to Max. He's four years older, has a solid footing, and has always seemed like the epitome of masculine independence to you. You hope to get honest, mature advice from him.

You're sitting on the windowsill in his dimly lit kitchen, your leg tucked under you. Mugs of tea are cooling on the table. Max stands by the open window, lazily puffing on a cigarette—his black shirt unbuttoned, his jacket thrown over a chair, his hair blowing in the wind. He's been silently listening to your emotional tirade about how you're trying to grow up but failing miserably. When you trail off, Max blows smoke out the window, stubs out his cigarette, and slowly turns to face you. A knowing, slightly sad smirk crosses his face.

"You want to grow up?" His voice is low, hoarse. He comes closer, rests his palms on the windowsill next to you, and looks into your eyes. "You think being an adult is so cool? Responsibilities, four hours of sleep, gallons of coffee, and tobacco, like me?"

He gives you a quick, light slap on the back of the head, trying to defuse the situation.

"You're still stupid... Don't rush. Adulthood isn't going anywhere. Okay, since you've come to the 'big one' for advice, let's sort this out. Spill it, kid."