I'm working on stuff. Go me!

In the stories I heard as a child, the prince always got the girl. My parents raised me to believe that if I were charming enough, my princess will become my happily ever after. They never expected her to be Prince Charming.
But before I begin, I need to say that real life has no "happy ending." Most endings are painful, slow, arduous, and end with no kiss, although if you're lucky enough you can pump out one last angry fuck. But then again, don't take my word for it: I'm the angry step-sister, the second-fairest, the huge fucking octopus, and the power-hungry lion who keeps with hyenas.

I met Colin Shifdale on a park bench, where his thumb was flicking an imaginary lighter in my direction. I pulled my black bic lighter from my pocket and snickered as the spring winds blew out the flame for three tries in a row. I didn't know it was a joint at first, but when the flame held long enough to ignite the tip, the smoke was not the same as the tobacco smoke rising from my right hand.
"Wanna hit?" His voice was strained from a deep inhale. I shook my head no, followed by a long drag off my cigarette.
The marajuana smoke was familiar, and my inner strugglee to resist contorted my face with unfamiliar twists and newly discovered wrinkles. He held out the hand with his join. It became his sixth finger, an extention of himself.
I smiled and declined again. I told him that I was a year and a half strong without it. "I haven't even smelled the stuff for a year," I said.
He scratched his scalp with his unoccupied hand and gently adjusted the black tuft above his head. His russet eyes then rested on my eyes. He staed straight into me, and in a flash I could see myself embracing him, our lips searching the confines of our mouths, and the smoke from his lungs reviving a dead addicition, as well as breathing life to a new one.
I shook my head like a chill forced my body to convulse, and looked at the way his vision had drifted. I gently touched his hand, barely caressing his knuckles. His eyes grew slightly, somewhat shocked by such a simple gesture. My hand felt his, and I continued down his hand until I took the joint and pressed it to my lips. With a deep inhale, the pot smoke was sweet, laced with the flavor of his lips. I let the smoke overtake my lungs, and breathed a short gasp when I realized what I had done, let alone what I got myself into.
"Thought you said you quit." His smirk was all I saw. I exhaled the smoke.
"People change," I said. I returned his joint, "And my old man told me quitters never win."
"Well, Mr...?"
"Mr. Alexander Traynor." I bowed my head slightly.
"Well, Mr. Traynor, thank you graciously for the light." He flicked the burning tip from his roach and swallowed the remainding paper and scalded pot.
"And you are?"
"Not real." He courtseyed.
"Then I guess I shouldn't bother giving you my number."
"Couldn't hurt," he stroked the short whiskers on his chin. "Even real people don't call every time, right?
"And what do you know of reality and her people?" I patted my pockets for something to write on, but all I had on me was a pack of cigarettes. I took them out of my pocket and mimed writing something into the wind.
"Nothing that isn't written in her books." He produced a pen.
"Then what should I call you, oh he who is not real?" took out a cigarette and wrote my phone number on it.
"I don't smoke." He reluctantly reached for the cigarette as if it were covered in slime and smelled like dry urine.
"Neither do I," and lit one of my own as I walked away.
When I looked back, he was turning the cigarette through his fingers. He saw me looking back and cupped his right hand around the side of his mouth. "Colin," he half shouted. My grin spred wide, and I turned around, never expecting to see him again.