Cook

Cook sat at the very top, his legs crossed. The orange glow of his cigarette blazed in the darkness like a distant beacon. The girl climbed the concrete steps, trying to make no noise, and sat down a couple of meters away from him.

Cook blew out a thick cloud of smoke, which was immediately blown away by the wind toward the football field. He didn't turn around, but she felt him watching her out of the corner of her eye.

“No one,” she stated, looking at the empty paths.

"Yeah," he replied hoarsely. "Everyone's lost it. As usual."

He paused, flicked his ash away, and suddenly smiled—kindly, without his usual irony. He turned his head, and in the spotlights, which hadn't yet been turned off, I saw his face: relaxed, without the "tough guy" mask he usually wore in a crowd.

"You know," he said, staring off into space, "at first I thought you were weird. Like, out of this world. But it turns out you're a normal girl."