He smoked mild sevens, a pack a day. He held his cigarette like a bad habit he's learned to love.


She remembers asking him, once, why he smoked.


It was cool, he replied. It was cool to be eighteen and listening to Motley Crue and smoking, drinking, too. He added as an afterthought.


Cool my ass, he snorted and took another deep drag of his mild seven.





He listened to rock music. And yet, she felt he didn't understand. He knew all the facts and the bands and the names of the singers. He had the skeleton of rock nailed down, just couldn't bleed rock if his life depended on it.





That was his problem.





his I love yous, his phone calls, walking with him down the street, all of that were just the skeleton. He lacked the blood.





He couldn't bleed.