"Do you want another one?"

I looked at the pack of cigarettes, with the sticks all lined up in the box-- skinny, white, gold-ringed, strangely like teeth.

"Why not?"

I wanted to tell him that no, I didn't really want to smoke. That I was leaving. That winter would be over, summer would come, and there would always be a He and a Me, but with our fractured selves hurtling into some future, any future where all our memories of this time would be gone, like the wisps of smoke from his cigarette. We'd forget. We'd be whole again.

But I didn't. I stubbed out my cigarette.