Dramaturgy

I'm sitting in college under the arches, the cold in my bones, chai curdling my veins and like a ninja you spring out, grab me and say, 'I just got kicked out of class, we're going for a smoke.'

I don't even like the smoke guy. But it's cold and you look pissed as hell so I follow.

I don't really know you but then again my mind has always been mutinously myopic and I never map friends of friends because the coordinates get too difficult to control.

We run outside and I say all the right things about attendance. We cross, you save me from a speeding car and I fight the urge to laugh at how easy it is for boys to play Superman.

The smoke guy doesn't sell to girls under a fail misconception that it will save us so you buy me a menthol and mint without even asking. I bite back surprise, you remembered

The pavement calls to me and when I sit down you don't hesitate. This is what I absolutely love about boys, they see nothing wrong with getting dirty.

'I like your name.'

'I hate it. My brother and sister are named after Gods, and I'm named after someone who worships God. Yay.'

'So you're real.'

I blow smoke spirals and ask you about your city, about change, about acid and alienation. You tell me stories instead. I curl up and let your voice do the talking so in time I can spell out the subtext, the rasps, the curves, the connotations. It's different. When you look at me, I pick up where you left off and you listen.

We're three smokes down, I'm on a roll about subjectivity and robots, the real world, happiness, the Beatles, Bombay secrets, painting people, the mafia, and you're still listening. I'm not thinking.

We count yellow cars and you laugh at all the right places. I'm wearing an ancient sweatshirt, no kajal and a very strategic coffee stain. I look like a 5 year old but you don't seem to care.

'I don't like her.' I say pointedly about someone walking past, on our fourth trip to the smoke guy.

'Why baba?'

'I don't know, bad vibes?'

'But do you know her?'

'Aww yeah you're one of those no judgement, acid has broken all the walls in my head types.'

'Acid is for safe places and unless you know someones story you can't play their game, right?'

'So its an endless circle of grey areas? I know what you're getting at but sometimes its easier being pissed off and juvenile. To judge and jail. The vicious circle. I don't want to go around giving chances,' I'm holding my breath so I turn away breathing out slowly.

You watch me for a bit then say something completely unexpected,

'Punch me.'

'You're insane.'

I watch you watching me and this could turn into one of those viral video games on pause so I punch your palms until they turn red.

You're stronger than I thought.

When I'm done you give me a real hug, chin to head, toe to toe, your forearms fighting the warmth into me.

Only strangers trust in tandem.

When we cross the road back to college you literally pull me forwards by the scruff of my neck to escape an errant driver.

'Ay man, why do you keep saving me?'

'Because I can.'