Balcony. Music playing in the room just across the glass door. Last pack of cigarettes, one cigarette lit, which she held in her right hand. A few beer cans. The boy walks in.
— You shouldn't smoke.
— I always imagined someone showing up and telling me that.
— Oh, really?
— Now if you continue the dialogue like I always imagined I might freak out. Why shouldn't I smoke?
— You're too beautiful to smoke.
— So yeah, you're reading my mind.
He smirked, took one step closer and plucked the cigarette out of her hand when she was just about to put it in her mouth one more time.
— Ok, have you been reading my blog or something?
— Do you even have a blog? I'd read it.
— No, you wouldn't.
— Wouldn't I?
— You would, but you wouldn't tell me. You'd use it as a secret weapon or some shit.
As he took another sip, the music changed. She took one sip as well and closed her eyes for a second.
— That song reminds me of someone. Actually, the band does.
— Someone you miss?
— Not exactly.
— Someone you wish you missed?
She stared at him, dumbfounded.
— You're good.
— Thanks.
He made a pause, staring at something on the blue night sky.
— So, why are we here all bitter?
— I'm not bitter, and you're just... here.
— The beer is kind of bitter, and we're drinking it, so that makes us bitter.
— That makes no sense.
— Neither does life, but do you question life?
— Do you consider yourself as important as life?
— I don't know, but if I could be your life I'd be glad.
— So you're here to flirt? Nice.
— You actually find that nice?
— Maybe. If you weren't drunk it'd be nicer.
— I'm not drunk yet, love. But yeah, I agree.
— Do you flirt with better pick-up lines when you are drunk?
— Are you eager to find out?
— I'm eager for a cigarette.
— And I'm eager to read your blog.
— For what purpose?
— Maybe I'd find something actually useful on the matter of flirting with you.
— I think you already have a secret weapon, and you're just faking all of this.
— And what brings you to that conclusion?
— The fact that's what I'd want you to do, or, rather, like you to do if you were one of my creations on this blog of mine that may or may not exist, and I shouldn't tell you more about it.
— I look like one of your creations?
— I can't really tell, they basically exist for themselves.
— So it couldn't be that you based one of them on me?
— Oh, I wouldn't do that.
— And why is that?
She took the last pack of cigarettes out of her pocket, stared at it, and left it on the balcony while drinking what was left of the beer can, standing straight in front of him before turning to the door.
— Because I'm eager to find out what kind of character you are, or could be, even eagerer than I was for the cigarettes.
— I might use that interest of yours against you.
— Secret weapon, lad.
"Secret weapon", she said to herself while walking out, feeling his eyes glued to her back. Or glued to the sky. She couldn't tell, because just like her characters, he existed by himself.
