"Take my photo." Steve sat on a bucket and rolled up his right sleeve. I was beginning to get used to the Polaroid. He lit a cigarette and put his arm up, flexing his small bicep like Charles Atlas. I loved his confidence. Not that I wasn't confident; neither of us gave a shit about what anyone else thought. But, I liked that I had a friend who was as equally attractive or unattractive as I.
"No, wait," he said. He walked to the portable turntable we'd set up on the roof that morning. "Let me turn the record over." This particular record came out 13 years before I was born. My parents owned a copy but I'd never taken the time to listen to it until now. It was great. I snapped off a polaroid as Steve dropped the needle.
"Dood--"
"No, it'll be good. Sit down anyway." He sat down and rolled up his sleeve again. "This way you've been smoking the cigarette for a minute and it looks more legit." He grimaced and I took the photo.
"Has it hit you yet?," he asked.
And then it hit me.
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