The roof was empty like one of those zombie movies, where no one else is left alive. Apocalyptic.
“No one ever parks up here, Joe,” Ryan mumbled, “and besides, these mall-going vampires hate sunlight.” He popped the trunk and unlocked the doors. “Don’t mix metaphors.”
“So, what are we doing here?” I asked. Out of the car, I stretched.
“I say, mix drinks.” From the open trunk, Ryan grabbed a plastic bag. “Sort of like a last supper.”
“A little early for dinner,” I joked.
Ryan smiled. “I know, man.”
In the black bag were two bottles of Jack Daniel’s and three packs of Parliaments: two blue and one green. I thought of the ocean.
“Looks like a party.” I grinned and snatched a pack.
The bottle passed between us. The sun hung high and bright. White clouds spotted the sky like scattered sheep. I don’t remember the last time I looked up at the blue above, without even the slightest fear that something was going to fall from it. Warm beneath that summer sun, I picked the dead skin of week old sun burn. It came off my arm in thin flakes like tiny pieces of tissue paper.
“It’s the end of an age, man.” He lit a Parliament and took an endless drag. In his smoke, I smelled mints. Ryan tossed me his Zippo and a Parliament from his green pack.