On a crisp November night, three years past, the full moon cast its luminescent glow over the old city of Charleston, creating a stark contrast against the darkened heavens when he first noticed the solitary figure of the boy at the Battery. Perched atop an overfilled backpack, the boy drew on his cigarette with an almost affectionate intensity, savoring the smoke within before releasing it into the chill of the night air.

He wanted this boy and sneezed, a sudden reaction that gripped the attention of the young boy much to his delight.  He waved, hoping to bridge the gap between them, but another sneeze shattered the moment, turning it into a fleeting memory. The boy's focus returned to his solitude, allowing him to reflect on his conduct, accompanied by the rhythmic sound of waves and the unlikely prospect of an encounter.

Nearby the aggressive blinking of brake lights from the cars contrasted sharply with the tranquility of the sea, yet no one seemed to notice the boy save him.  He took it as a good sign and enjoyed his thoughts a bit longer.  He got a cigarette he kept tucked inside his overcoat, which was more than a mere indulgence; it was a symbol of defiance, a companion in his silent rebellion against the chaos of the world around him. As he inhaled, he expected to exhale not just smoke, but also the weight of his thoughts and disappointments into the sea breeze. He paused briefly, yet his smile was confident as he made his way down the steps towards the boy. “Got a light?” he inquired, motioning with two fingers at his mouth.

"Sure," the boy said, pulling out a lighter. He lit his cigarette but stumbled over his backpack and fell against the seawall.

“Are you okay?" he said.

"I'm fine," the boy said, raising a hand to keep him back.

He didn’t tell him but felt relieved that the boy tripped over his backpack and not the seawall, almost laughing at the thought of him falling into the harbor. As he exhaled smoke, he noticed the boy wasn't skinny but rather sturdy, like a robust field hand from one of the Pee Dee counties near Charleston. He carried himself well in baggy clothes, he prayed were surely just that—baggy--but undeniably dirt cheap. ​He quietly asked, "What are you looking for?"

The boy took a deep breath and said, "I'm looking for you."

"My car is parked up the street," he said, with a cigarette hanging from his mouth.

"Would you like to go there to warm up?"

“What kind of car?”

“Silver Jag.”

“Grey?”

"Grey, silver," he stated, extinguishing his cigarette on the curb. "Indeed, grey," he continued with a modest smile, running his fingers through his black hair which was beginning to turn grey.

“How old?”

"Brand new two years ago." He took the boy's hand, and the boy did not object when he held it longer than expected. Together, they left the Battery. 

Inside his car parked behind a playground at S. Adgers Wharf, the boy took out a can of malt liquor beer from his backpack. They shared the beer along with a cigarette as the moon rose higher in the sky, becoming bright white. Finally, he leaned over and kissed the boy on the mouth.
​
He felt himself sinking, slipping into the soft leather seat, losing control, wanting it.  This kiss, the helpless way it made him feel, captivated him so, leaving him no hint of the dark machinations yet to come, no hint of the relentless downhill spiral that would eventually lead to murder.

Nearby the aggressive blinking of brake lights from the cars contrasted sharply with the tranquility of the sea, yet no one seemed to notice the boy save him. It was a good sign, indeed, for it meant he could revel in his own world a while longer. A cigarette tucked inside his overcoat was more than a mere indulgence; it was a symbol of defiance, a companion in his silent rebellion against the chaos of the world around him. As he placed it between his lips, it was not just smoke that he anticipated exhaling, but the weight of his thoughts, swirling away with the sea breeze.