#light your own damn cigarette

Together, they were just better than other people. They had their lives, and everyone else had theirs. They, then, were unique, and what’s set aside is elevated by its rarity, regardless of its content. So, together, they were better than the others. 

The content was there too. When they’d first met she’d managed to swing the conversation around to the feminist agenda, and he’d just listened to her rant, that faint smile on his face, a future landmark that she’d navigate by. As she petered out, her arguments exhausted and her fervour tempered, she’d taken out a cigarette, and paused for a moment, eyes narrowing at him. His smile grew a fraction of an inch. 

She’d lit her own damn cigarette. Looking back, that might have been the moment she fell in love with him. But retrospect was never all that accurate. It fogged and blurred, until all the best bits slipped into the same instances. 

They’d stand on rooftops and laugh about spitting on pedestrians below, but never actually go through with it (they were better than other people, remember?). They would be oh so sweet to the waitress that treated them like people rather than customers. They judged, and they liked to think they were judged, in turn. But they wouldn’t be found wanting. 

That wasn’t it, though. The root of their superiority, that light hearted elitism that they probably indulged just a moment too much. That root was found in their enlightened state, the fact that they understood one another. That they understood sex. They’d found the secret, and that knowledge was the power that they had, that put them ahead. 

It was them against the world, as far as it ever could be. But they really couldn’t give a fuck. Better, remember?