You pulled a blanket out of the trunk of your car and spread it out on the curb in the parking lot of a suburban bar. That you even had it must have meant something. The warm air carried our laughter and the enticing scent of Wendy's chicken nuggets past people filing out of the bar as it closed down. You told me that smoking would damage my skin, that it was beautiful and didn't deserve to be ruined. I'd usually be annoyed just like any other smoker when someone tells them it's a bad habit, but your delivery was charming.
The evening started as a disaster, friend fired from work and bad news all around. I hardly even knew you when you asked if anyone wanted to play pool. Truth be told I'm not very good at pool and would have said no if it had been any other night. It's fallen out of my memory who won. Those kind of things don't typically stick with me.
People were leaving, but you, like me, had the feel about you that the night wasn't over, so I invited you to tag along with me. We took your car because it's impossible to refuse a sober ride when you plan on moving on to the next bar; things were already coming together so well. Being close to someone hardly known was exciting, I guided you through a foreign city to a bar made out of a double wide trailer. When we left, I took music from a friend that would end up spelling one of the most wonderful disasters, a simple song we played loud that still rings in my ears.
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