Once upon a cigarette, I sat doing homework outside my favourite downtown Denver coffee shop, across from a boy I was trying hard to love. It was freezing that night, but all the seats inside were taken.

“At least we can smoke,” he reasoned as he led the way to the section of seating off the side of the building. We threw our backpacks on a wobbly metal table and attempted to be productive. The lights hanging across the alley were barely bright enough to be of any use, but he reviewed his chemistry notes and I marked up poetry, with each of us treating ourselves to the occasional drag.