He cradles his hands around a dying cigarette, trying to coax it back to life. Patient, soft puffs seeking a last bastion against the frigid cold. The bright, too painful light of the setting sun glints off frozen snow, into our eyes. Mine are worse off than his—square plastic shades cover his eyes. He becomes a reborn eighties heartthrob, like Patrick Dempsey, or Robert Downey, Jr. The drumbeat and the guitar still reach us out here, pounding through the brick wall.

“Did you follow me out here to bum a smoke or what?” His voice isn't as warm as I had expected it to sound.

“No, I don't really smoke. It's just—sometimes it gets too loud,” I say, stuffing my hands deeper into my pockets. It doesn’t keep the cold away.

“Why did you come?” He glances at me over his cupped hands.

“I thought it would be fun. I mean, it is—”

“But,” he offers.

“I don't go out by myself much. When I do, it’s hard to feel like I really should be here.”

“So, like, imposter’s syndrome?” The end of his cigarette is glowing brightly again now. He turns to face me as we talk.

“That's just for writing, and being famous and stuff,” I say.

“Nah, it can be for anything. Brains are weird.”

“Interesting, that I run into you here,” I say. “You never expect to have anything in common with people you meet at school.”

“People surprise you.” He takes a long drag from his cigarette. After, he throws a wistful glance at what little remains between his fingers. His eyes naturally crinkle around the edges—not quite crow’s feet.

I can’t tell yet if his is a pensive face, or one of judgment, cynicism. He looks away from his cigarette, meets my eyes. With the sun shooting like a laser into my eyes, I can’t tell if his dark irises are blue, brown. “Do you want to get out of here? These guys are terrible live, worse than I expected from their album.”

“Where?” He’s a college acquaintance. It’s only by circumstance, chance, and social anxiety that we stand together in the cold now.

His apartment might be dim even in the glaring glow of midsummer. Outside, stark sunset fades into cooler toned dusk. Dim as it is, the walls are covered in Ramones posters and stark charcoal portraits.

“Did you do those?” I still see my breath.

“No. My sister. She’ll draw anyone if they can sit still for her.” His jacket lands on the unadorned kitchen chair by the door, shades folded away in a pocket. I place mine there, too.

He moves to the kitchen, switching on a thermostat along the way. “Too damn expensive to keep this shoebox warm. You like tea?”

“Black or green?” I hesitate to sit.

“I have both.” He rifles through cupboards—a stranger to his own belongings.

“Green, please. Too much caffeine gives me jitters.”

“Oh. Of course.” He emerges from a lower cupboard, teakettle in hand, to fill with water from the tap.

His hair is short—just long enough to begin to curl. Dark waves cloud around his face. He seems so serious now—focused on the task at hand.

“You can sit,” he says, placing the kettle on the stove.

“Uh, okay.” I don’t.

He looks at me—eye contact—through me. Pity, sympathy, something makes his eyes crinkle at the edges again. He looks away, takes a seat at the kitchen table—gesturing to the other chair.

I flush under my winter-chilled cheeks. I walk through his living room to sit at his table.

“What are you studying?” Eye contact—again.

I laugh—awkwardly. What’s your major? “English. We did meet in a Lit class.”

He shrugs. “Gen eds, though. What’s your focus—Lit?”

“Ah, not Lit. Fiction.” I twist my thumb ring around, around. “I love to read, but Lit courses are kind of the worst.”

“I’d believe that.” He leans forward an inch or two.

“What about you,” I ask. “What are you studying?”

He leans back, smirking. “Poetry.”

“So that’s—” I clear my throat, start again. “You must get a lot of attention with that one.”

“Eh. ‘I wrote a poem about you’ only works until they read it.” His eyes crinkle again, the corner of his mouth teases a smile.

“What do you mean?” I pull a foot from my boot, attempting to massage life into numbed toes.

“I’ll let you read some after tea if you’d like.”

“I think I’d like that.” I switch feet.

We talk idly of school, comparing prose against verse until the kettle interrupts us, a whisper rising to a piercing whistle as he rushes to take it from the heat.

“Don’t add the tea right away,” I offer. “You’ll scald the leaves.”

“Okay, I won’t.” There’s a warmth in his voice that wasn’t before.

I move from my seat to stand across the counter from him. “Thank you for inviting me over.”

“Honestly, anything was better than freezing my ass off listening to that crap.”

Oh.

“Well, this beats sitting in my dorm trying to write a midterm essay.”

His eyes meet mine again, so close now. Blue, I’m certain. Something hums between us—I can’t be sure he feels it.

“Spring can’t come soon enough,” he says, without looking away.

“Um, I think the water’s cool enough now.” I want to look away. No, I don’t.

“Probably.” He moves closer in millimeters. He has a freckle under his left eye.

My chest is tight, but not from cigarette smoke or the clamor of a crowd.

He reaches out with his hand, a thumb resting on my jaw. His fingers curl around my neck, under my hair. He’s so warm.

The kiss is brief, pleasant. It hints at more. He pulls away. “Let’s have our tea. Then we can finish our conversation.”