#2

She studied the end of her cigarette, ghost lines drawn in the space around her hooded head.

"Every weekend, I party and drink and life is great, i mean...i've met awesome people but..."

She took another drag.

"What's the point? I mean, I'm not suicidal or anything, but what's the point if this is all there is?"

I jiggled my leg, trying to generate some sort of body head against the wet 40 degree evening. I looked down at the sidewalk, a thin covering of mist a blanket on everything in its path. Everyone had gone back inside the gallery, and I silently berated myself for not wearing more layers.

She continued, words poised on the edge of a massive existentialist abyss. I remembered what it was like at the bottom of that pit, and suddenly my wise words escaped me, all sounds of encouragement at once empty and heavy with insufficiency.

"Life is beautiful, right? That's what they say, anyway."

My eyes scanned the empty road.

"You're looking for your purpose, right? YOUR point?"

She flicked the filter into the street, and quickly hid her hand in her pocket.

"I guess. I guess I can't figure out the difference between being alive or dead."