Elio watched me with an intense focus, then turned his head and lit his own cigarette. He brought his knees up, so they rested just below his chin, and wrapped his arms around his bent legs. With the cigarette still pinched between his fingers, he raised his drink to his mouth and swallowed a third of it in one deep gulp. I couldn’t help but be aroused.

“So, you like painting men, huh?” he asked as he set down his cup and looked at me with a suggestive smile.

I ran my tongue along the front of my teeth and fought back the urge to blush. I inhaled a deep breath before responding.

“I’m obsessed with the male body and my need to create depictions of it is almost compulsive.” I was quoting my artist statement in a confident tone, even though I couldn’t bring myself to look Elio in the eye as I spoke. “I need art. It’s what keeps me sane.” I paused for a moment as I sought to gather my thoughts. “You see, I’m an incredibly self-destructive person. And art provides me with an outlet to channel that angry energy into something positive, so I won’t feel the need to continue destroying myself.” I ran my hand through my hair as I bit my lower lip. “Without art, I think I would have killed myself years ago.”

“Isn’t that kind of melodramatic?” he asked.

“Maybe…but it’s true!” I replied as I pointed my finger at him.

He crushed out his cigarette then reclined his back and angled his arms so that his palms were pressed against the floor. He slowly spread his legs as though he were tempting me to admire his protruding bulge.

“Did you like drawing me?” His eyelids were half-closed as he ran his tongue along the top of his lip and flickered his eyebrows.

“Fuck yeah!” I replied with a laugh and a surprised look on my face. “Dude, you’re fucking gorgeous!” It seemed to me like such an obvious statement, and one I assumed he had heard many times before. But the way he blushed, and his eyes filled with tears, and his mouth stretched into a smile of unencumbered joy, I could swear he had never really believed it until that moment.

“Well, maybe we can get together for a private drawing session.” He winked at me as he said this.

I immediately blushed and started nervously packing a bowl. My body was shaking as I muttered, “Yeah, that would be cool.”

As I passed him the bowl, he declared, “You know, I’ve always preferred smoking weed from pipes. I don’t understand people who like to smoke it any other way!”

My eyes sprang open, and my palms flipped into an exaggerated expression of disbelief. “I know, right!?! I mean, I don’t know this for sure, but I’m pretty certain that pipes are cleaner than joints. And really, packing a pipe is way less time consuming than rolling a joint.”

“Yes, yes!” he said as he repeatedly waved his finger at me. I let out a short laugh as I realized I couldn’t think of any other person that preferred smoking from a pipe than myself, so I felt strangely moved that I found a smoker with similar habits as my own.

After taking a quick puff, he passed the pipe back to me. As I reached out my hand in acceptance, the edges of our fingers briefly brushed against each other. My eyes instantly darted up to look into his. They looked glazed over, with every vein throbbing so that a bright, cadmium red hue surrounded his glassy blue irises. Yet he stared back at me with a piercing intensity that was softened by a serene smile. He gently took his hand off the pipe and leaned back, his hands again pressed against the floor. He puffed out his chest and curled his right foot below his buttocks, thus thrusting his crotch forward.

I didn’t know if he was trying to tempt me and, in that moment, I didn’t care. I was going to make a move. Any move. So, I got up off the couch, walked around the coffee table, and sat down on the floor next to him. Not a grand gesture, I know. But one subtle and smooth enough that it would go unnoticed and, therefore, not seem suspicious. This allowed me to get closer to him, so I could slide my hand up his shirt and begin caressing his stomach. Then walk my fingers along his tight abdominal muscles to his chest, where I began massaging his nipples. He inhaled deeply then reached up his shirt to cup his left hand over my playfully curious right hand and gently guide it away from his body and up against my own.

“Let’s just talk,” he said as he released my hand from his firm grip.

So, talk we did. About anything and everything. The mention of a simple, almost meaningless word could steer our conversation in an entirely new direction. I remember it as a seemingly endless, convoluted string of abstract topics and profound statements punctuated by lines of coke and increasingly stronger drinks.

“I should go,” he said as we finished snorting the last of his coke. It was then that I realized my apartment had become brightened by the light of the rising sun.

“Okay,” I replied as I lit a cigarette and exhaled the smoke through my nostrils.

He began to stand up, but I stopped him by saying, “My friend is playing a show tomorrow night. He’s really good. Why don’t you come?” I rubbed my left hand across the bottom of my nose and stared at the edge of the coffee table as I awaited his response.

“Sounds great!” He smiled as he thrust himself into an upright position. “But I should really go, because I need to crash!” His body began to sway, and he lifted his right hand to his temple in an effort to steady himself.

I sprang up from the floor. “I’ll show you out!” I said as I crushed out my cigarette and slipped the unsmoked half back into my nearly empty pack. I grabbed my keys, Elio grabbed his jacket, we both slipped on our shoes, and we glided out the door.

The apartment’s staircase looked like an M.C. Esher drawing as it spiraled downward in a series of rectangular blocks that alternated between looking completely flat and fully three-dimensional. I ignored this drug-induced illusionary effect as we slowly and carefully proceeded down the stairs. I was struck by the crispness of the air and my body began to shiver as we stepped out of the apartment building and onto the street. Elio pulled the sleeves of his jacket over his hands and muttered the word “Brrrr!” with a shaky voice.

I lit my half-cigarette from before, took a few quick puffs, then handed it to Elio. “I should give you back your hoodie,” I said as I began to remove the garment.

“You know what? You look cold. Why don’t you keep it? For now, at least.” He looked me up and down, seeming to assess my ability to pull off wearing his hooded sweatshirt. “I’ll get it back the next time I see you.”

“Tomorrow night,” I said as I stared at him with a forced expression of indifference.

“Tomorrow night!” he replied as he nodded his head.

He handed the nearly burned-out cigarette back to me. “See ya!” he exclaimed as he spun around and began quickly walking away, his back perfectly poised to keep from stumbling around like the drunk, coked-out person that he was.

I took a final puff of the cigarette and let it drop carelessly from my fingers. I watched the glowing ember explode into dozens of bright red-orange dots as it hit the pavement. I lifted my right leg and slammed my foot against the sidewalk, effectively extinguishing the potential fire hazard of my cancerous habit.

I ground the cigarette butt into the concrete by rapidly twisting it under the front of my foot. I stopped abruptly, inhaled deeply, and darted my gaze away from my feet and down the street, where my eyes quickly locked on Elio. He seemed so distinct at first. But then slowly his figure began to blur until he became lost in the fog of blue-grays that settled over the distant horizon of the increasingly crowded residential neighbourhood.