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An Open Letter To That Guy At That Party With A Spare Cigarette

You pulled a pack of Chesterfields from the rolled sleeve of your t-shirt, fishing inside of the packet with a dexterous index finger. It was uncertain whether the two girls were now shotgunning the joint or kissing, but in either case, you hardly noticed. Perennially cool, you plucked the unfiltered cigarette from its pack. “Last one,” you said, adding, “need a light, man?” without missing a beat.