The heavy must of cigarette fumes mingled with the crisp nighttime air, reflecting the neon of a nearby motel, at once both disgusting and ethereal.

Your friend passes the dart back to you, the two of you standing alone in the otherwise empty mall parking lot. A crushed slushie cup oozes melting blue razz onto the pavement a few feet away, a Styrofoam relic of one of the mall’s few patrons that Thursday evening.

“I don’t know, man. Fuck it,” your friend opines, and even though you know these words possess the emotional depth of a Snickers bar, for a moment you’re just about fooled into thinking these words mean everything.

It’s that late hour of night when there isn’t much else to say, anyway. And after all, you’re only 17, and you’ve known this friend for as long as you’ve been tying your shoes. He’s a wiry kid, one of the more handsome in your class, but usually passed over by the girls at your suburban high in favor of the football star, the class rebel, or both.

But you guys are the real rebels, you think. Smoking cigs in a mall parking lot on a school night. Who gives a shit if Jennie or Jackie are out with Johnny and Jimmie? “Yeah dude. Fuck it.” Leaning against your car, you pass the cigarette back to him in that casual, practiced way that would probably look very cool, if anyone else was around to see it.

His dark, overgrown hair seems uniquely suited to his otherwise ill-fitting clothes: the navy blue hoodie that probably hasn’t been washed since the last time you smoked, the torn up jeans draped over his mud-caked shoes. Even though you guys have barely said anything, he smirks at you as if you’re both in on the joke, whatever that may be.

“Alright man, I gotta get home. My mom should’ve just gone to bed. I’ll see you tomorrow.” And with that, he stomps out the cigarette butt and hops back into his piece of shit Junebug. The headlights flip on and he drives away, leaving you alone with your thoughts.