A young smoker’s meet-cute.

(Part of a short romance I‘m writing.)

“You know that smoking kills people, right?”

I was on my monthly gas station cigarette run when the cashier spoke to me. It would have been a normal occurrence if it wasn’t the first time I had heard her voice. Six months, and nothing. No “hello,” no “thank you,” no “how was your day,” nothing. Until today, and I spoke even less in return.

“I do.” I looked directly at her while I passed her the wad of cash I had pulled from my pocket just seconds prior. A few moments of silence passed as she rang me up. “You’re the youngest person I’ve seen buying cigarettes here.”

“I’m 17.”

“I’m 18.”

“And you work at a 7-11? Harsh.”

“Save your oxygen for kinder words, smoker. Do you even have a job?”

‘Okay, she can take a joke,’ I thought. ‘That’s a start.’

“Err.. What’s your name?” I paused to run my hand through my hair- it was getting in my face.

She grinned. “Clementine.”

“Like the orange?”

The grin immediately fell from her face. Oops.

“Yeah, like the orange.”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it like that, it’s a pretty name, I jus–,” I began, before she cut me off.

–“It’s cool.”

“Hey,” I started, trying to redeem myself. “My name’s Israel. Like the country.”

I smiled, and so did she.