When we met, you hated me. You looked at my powder blue basketball sneakers and laughed. Not converses, I couldn't afford them. Still can't.

You were a dream to me. Near anorexic skinny, bright red hair, yellow dress. Barefoot in the forest. I was in jeans and a jacket, you used my shirt to fuel the bonfire you were dancing around.

As you saw those powder blue sneakers, you laughed and lit a Camel. I remember well, the stench of those accursed cigarettes. You laughed at that too, calling my Lucky Strikes "Girl's Cigarettes".

Cheap shoes and girl's cigarettes.

Our first fuck was that night. My third, and by then you'd lost count. I remember the thrill as you lay back on a bed of cigarette butts and beer cans. This was as close to romance as we'd ever get.

Midway through you climbed on top, lit another Camel, the smoke burning my eyes.

You laughed again after, as I was putting my shoes on again. With another cigarette in you mouth you asked me name. You shimmied away, smoothing down the front of your dress.

That was five years ago, when I was 17. Now all anybody has off you is a memory. I'm sat typing this to you on a broken typewriter while my friends drink, dance, and one plays harmonica with the radio turned up full.

I've started smoking Camels now. Is that manly enough for you? I've still got cheap shoes, the jacket from that night is still here, hanging from a hook on the wall.

I've lit a Camel now as I type this. I wonder how you ever coped with these. Are you smoking one now? Or have you moved to something even harsher?

Strange memories to have at a party, although it died down a while ago. I'm typing now just to drown out the couple fucking in the next room, squeaking against the leatherette sofa. The girl smokes camels.