Lisa plopped down next to me on the grass. “Got a cig?” she asked.
I tapped a Marlboro out of the package and handed it to her. She pulled out her steel Zippo, flipped it open, and raised her eyebrows twice, signaling that the trick she’d been working on for months was coming. Next, Lisa raised her hand dramatically and brought it down while snapping her fingers to strike the flint wheel with her middle one. When the wick burst into flame, she grinned like a Kindergartner whose coloring page had just been put up on the fridge.
“You got it,” I said. “Props.”
“It’s nothing.” She blew a long column of smoke.
Not to be outdone, I raised my own lit cigarette to my lips and pulled in a long draught. Then I blew a series of smoke rings and am stoked to say I even managed to get two inside ano
