The only place selling cigarettes between the party and my house is the Exxon station, so we buy some and sit at the curb smoking and talking for a half an hour. I want to ask when you switched brands? But I don't.

I am sobering up, but you are not, and I'm afraid people walking by will think you are high because of the way you're talking.

"Everyone wants to be somewhere other than where they are. Where do you want to be right now? Where would you rather be than outside the gas station dumpster with me smoking cigarettes at 2:00 in the morning?"

I am tempted to chain smoke for the first time in my life, about to pull another Parliament from your pack and light it against mine before the fire hits my fingers.

But I don't.

It's more satisfying in the moment to press this one against the pavement and push each burning ember on top of the other, kindling the fire then crushing the entire stub into the ground, wiping everything away.

Jennifer L. Napolitano is a student in the MFA Program in Creative Writing at American University in Washington, DC. She had to leave her home of Florida so she could write about it. In her (dwindling) spare time she enjoys looking out windows, feeling guilty about not calling her family, and looking up videos of cats playing in buckets online.