Gustavo sinks into the old outdoor chair in his garage, the one that’s slightly crooked but still holds him like it remembers. The street outside is quiet, save for the occasional flicker of the lamppost and the distant hum of a car engine. He unwraps a Snow Bear mint, places it on his tongue, and lights a Chesterfield cigarette with practiced ease.
The first drag is long. He exhales slowly, watching the smoke drift toward the dark corner of the property.
“Been a long day,” he says, voice low. “You seem to be in a good mood tonight.”
He pauses, eyes fixed on the shadows. No reply, of course. But he waits anyway.
“Blissful ignorance is great, huh?” he continues. “What was that line in BoJack Horseman? Yeah… ‘When you look at someone with rose-colored glasses, all the red flags just look like flags.’”
A bird chirps somewhere in the distance. A car passes. The silence returns, heavier now.
“I used to think space was the answer. Not too far, just enough to breathe. I thought that was the sweet spot.”
The streetlight flickers again, drawing his gaze. He takes another drag, the cigarette glowing briefly in the dark.
“College was wild. First cigarette. First joint. First time I got questioned by cops. Nothing serious. I still get my NBI clearance, no problem. Thanks for the name, by the way. It’s rare enough to avoid hits.”
He chuckles softly, then lets the sound fade.
“Back then, I felt free. I could do anything my budget allowed. It was exciting.”
The mint has melted away. The cigarette’s smoke dances in the lamplight like something trying to take shape.
“Now I’ve got money. A car. I can take leaves whenever I want.”
A pause.
“And again, I’m alone.”
He takes one last drag, holds it, then exhales with a sigh that feels older than he is. The cigarette lands in the trash bin with a practiced flick. He stands, glances once more at the dark corner, then turns toward the house.
“I’m alone,” he repeats, softer this time.
The door closes behind him. The night resumes its silence.
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