Smoke circled up towards the ceiling from his cigarette. I watched it twist and twirl towards the light until it disappeared. Everyone was moving in slow motion from too much tequila. With my head in his lap and my legs splayed out on the rest of the couch, I was about ready to pass out.
“Johnny, no.” I heard Val say from across the room, followed by a groan and the sound of a bottle hitting the ground. I wondered who any of these people really were. Sure, we were all friends, we had always been friends, ever since we could get the booze and cigarettes, days like this were a normal occurrence at least twice a week. But who was I really spending time with? These kids, these rejects of society, tight jean clad boys with studded belts and dirty shoes, girls with multiple piercings and the highest tolerance to alcohol ever imagined. It feels as is the years I spent with these people was always in a cloud of smoke, an endless feeling of floating, flying, soaring and crashing. We all smoked weed, we all snorted crack and some of us even shot up heroin once or twice, or in the case of Johnny, almost every day. The sights, scents and sounds were so familiar; the screaming, muttering, sounds of sex, bottles smashing, laughing, and so much punk rock music.
I felt his lips on mine and I kissed back, not knowing anything else. I never knew anything but his soft blue eyes, goofy smile and tattooed arms. I never said no to him. I never could, he was mine, and he would always be mine whether I liked it or not. And we could barely afford to be together, we could barely afford to live. This life was so unsatisfactory, but it was all any of us ever had. Cigarette smoke and hangovers.

It was all we were ever going to have.