As he chugged the bottle of clear liquid that was tightly held in his tattooed hand, I watched his lips go to the opening and take a forbidden sip. I desperately wanted to know what they would feel like on me. As he pulled out his third cigarette that hour, I should have asked what he was trying to gas out. But I was to focused on how he gracefully clutched the thin killing machine in his hands. I wanted to know if he would hold me like that. I watched as he destroyed himself with every sip or inhale. He would look at me with a soulless smile, and for a moment, I forgot what I was worrying about.