I straddle the dead log, keeping my dress down towards my knees and my spirits up. He flicks his cigarette lighter endlessly, over and over again. The Marlboro remains in his mouth, unlit, as he stares into the floor. I realise how little he looks like James Dean. Everything is there… the white stick, the leather, the brow… but he looks like a little boy in his father’s suit pretending to work at the office. This is the end. So I pick a thin stone out from the small bag over my shoulder and carve some initials into the fallen log. I can tell from his sudden interest that he thinks these are our initials.
I write; THIS IS THE END…. and whip the stone at him hard, cutting to the bone just above his eye.
On the alley stairs, the girl is…
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