He talked about war. They listened; they smoked their smokes. “You’re responsible to keep alive, to keep your friends alive. There’s no scrimping on those tests.” He loved their insouciant talk; tied to a world of very little troubles, untroubled by many other worlds. It was almost midnight, it was raining hard, and he loved it. On a dark night with smokes there is never a lack of good things to talk about. He loved those good things. They were distant from his very little troubles, and that was good too. He looked over and saw her walk in. “God, I love her.” She walked towards him, smiling, never breaking gaze, she navigated the tables strewn about gracefully. She’s so damn graceful. Her nine words were planned. She slipped something to him. He could only grin at her. She was quick, and gone. So damn graceful. They talked easily till their filters singed. So easy. So casual. He was far from his very little troubles. They were men sheltered from rain, laughing, for now unnecessary. He laughed louder though, because he could feel the small box in his pocket, and he was pretty sure she loved him. 

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I really want to write out a complete thought about some relevant issue.  So I do. And immediately regret it.