The Last of Lee
— Short Fiction —
Lee wipes his face with the belly end of his t-shirt. I watch, as if on radar, the hurricane of hair around his navel. He sees me see him. I still don’t know if he likes me as a person. But tonight, he loves me as a mirror.
He lights a cigarette, kisses it orange just once, then hands it to me. I let it slow burn between my fingers. I don’t need to taste the smoke. I just need to…