Underneath a streetlight on the corner of 82nd avenue the stars shimmer above with the same sparkle that sequence has under neon moon. The wind whispers a soft hum as it gently entangles my hair with the smoke from my cigarette while I try to think about anything but how cold I am tonight. I've stepped out from the rushing voices, and erotic movement of the bar behind me to enjoy a quiet second while burning embers fall onto the toes of my heels. black pumps. ever since I was 18 years old I have worn black pumps to the bar. I like to tell people its because of the Amy Winehouse song "Fuck Me Pumps" but I know its because I want to be wanted. Tonight, I regret my fashion choice. a shirt that is shy to mimic a tease, paired with my "fuck me pumps" may not have been the weather conscience choice, but I didn't pay for a single drink tonight.

To my left, I see a girl with her head hanging down, a classic in her hand, and an outfit with similar disregard for the weather. playfully the wind tosses her hair too, revealing an unmistakable look on her face, an expression that you can tell was put there by a boy. a feeling no longer a stranger to me. I take another drag of my smoke preparing to hand her another dart, and give her a shoulder to cry on. something I wish a stranger had done for me once or twice. smoke dances from the corner of my once perfectly painted lips while I turn to face her. before a word can escape me, a car pulls into the stall in front of her, a tall man steps out, they share the same nose. he hands her his jacket that swallows her but never the less, provides warmth. pulling her into his arms with a swift but gentle motion, I realize how much he dwarfs her. he holds the door for her, wipes away the woes, and drives off.

The clock strikes 2AM, that girl is off with her father, on the way to get her favourite fast food, and talk about that boy like he was already yesterday. reaching for another smoke, the one I was going to hand her, still standing bellow a neon moon, a beacon of solitude. as I spark my zippo in the right, holding it's yoke in the left, softly hum "c'mon baby, light my fire" in a lazy hope it will stop my thoughts. the question that if my dad was only a call away, would I even have this pack of 20 in my purse?