When we met, hers were clasped with a red barrette. Mine were in my eyes. Skid marks watched us from the street and a plastic bag kept aloft by the traffic floated between us, waiting by a faded crosswalk.
We went outside for a smoke one day, and she asked me if I have a favourite lung. When I asked why, she told me to send all the tar and formaldehyde to the lung I like less so that I might always have one.
I smiled and said, “the left.” She laughed, dropping ashes on her shoe.