A common language, but only amongst the two of us. You put your hand out, palm up, bend your fingers towards you. You don't even look at me, but there's no one else around for you to be acknowledging. I dig into my pocket, and as I pull out the pack of cigarettes, I hope that I've got enough left to last me a few more hours. There's two left. No luck. I sigh, and pull the pair out, handing one over to you. I scurry around my bag for a lighter, but you sense my distress and pull out a pack of matches. One left. You know I can't light a match to save my life, so you decide not to waste it on my attempt. We lean across from each other, tips of our smokes so close. In the dead of the night, so dark we can only see the shadows of trees from the light of the moon upon our faces, the match sparks. Our faces are illuminated. Only for a moment as we inhale the light. You've always been the first to finish--Ever since we were kids stealing cigarettes from our mother's purse and coughing with collapsing lungs in your basement, long after your parents had gone to sleep. You toss the end as far as you can, but in the humid summer night air, it doesn't go very far. I know you're going to ask in a couple of seconds, so before you can, I hand over the rest of mine.
"Here, have a drag."
"No. I want to feel your skin."
So you do.
You feel it on your lips.