comedown | post malone

001.

Hard, wet snowflakes pelt your face, the wind whipping your hair into frozen knots as you try desperately to smoke your cigarette. Fingers numb, cheeks stinging, you begrudgingly blow smoke into the bitter wind.

Fuck Utah.

Inclimate weather decidedly not worth it, you drop the cigarette into the snow under your feet. You clear your throat and turn back into the warmth of the bar wishing both that indoor smoking was still legal, and that you had never started the habit in the first place. The temperature change made your face flush, the tightly packed crowd of people giving off a wave of heat as you enter the dim bar. Neil Young played faintly overhead, his warbling voice overshadowed by someone singing along loudly--and off-key-- on the corner of the bartop.

"Out of the blue and into the black," he shouted along, grinning with ruddy cheeks, arm in arm with an embarrassed friend. He gestured broadly as he sung, sloshing his drink onto his lap and the floor without a care. Patrons took turns staring at him, too drunk themselves to bother making a fuss. The song finished and in turn he finished his beer, letting go of his company and swaying to his feet. "I need a fuckin' cigarette," he announced, winding his way through the crowd. Halfway to the door he paused, apparently missing something by the way he groped at his pockets. "You got a dart?" he hollered back to his friend, who only shook his head. "You got a cigarette?" he began asking the strangers in his vicinity with no avail.

You held your hand out, waving a cigarette in front of his face to get his attention. "Here, man."

"Oh shit, thanks mama," he plucked the smoke from between your fingers, giving you what could only be described as a shit-eating grin. "Wanna join me?"

"Uh, yeah, sure," you hesitated then, as it was only up close now that you noticed his face was covered haphazardly in tattoos. Where the hell did this guy come from? Couldn't be Utah. "Yeah, I'll come out with you."