I was asking for a stick to puff, so he reached out for his box of cigs, shook all its contents out, and looked at me. 

The pile of trash that accumulated on top of the dining slash study table consisted of a soft, jellylike thing, a couple of shiny 25-cent coins, my menthol sticks, a cigarette butt and a small, white candle. 

For some inane reason, I put the candle in my mouth and started to light it, thinking it was my much longed for Marlboro green. I spat it out and his friend, Karl, smiled (yes he was there too, and I wonder why). After a few minutes, I was able to light a stick and he lighted his too. 

The entire place was bathed in midnight gloom, and the only glow that emanated from the room was from a solitary candle perched on top of a windowsill. 

He suddenly grabbed my hand much to my amazement and whispered that he wanted to show me something outside. 

As we made our way towards the front door, someone lashed out at me for my yosi. I yelled back, arguing that both my parents smoke too and that nobody has the right to tell me the difference between right and wrong, because I can very well figure it out for myself. 

He acted as if I weren’t creating a scene and without letting me finish my piece, he proceeded to drag me out of the house. 

In a few minutes, I found myself standing inside an ancient abode that apparently looked like it was turned into a museum with all the polished silver furnishings. It seemed as if he went there a lot of times before, because he knew exactly where to go. 

We didn’t stop to admire all the silver, because we went straight inside the dining room. 

It felt strange to behold that part of the house cum museum since the entire place was bare except for all the clotheslines stuck from wall to wall. I looked at him questioningly and he smiled that lazy smile of his. 

Sigh… 

After regaining my composure, I noticed he was clutching huge pieces of white paper with all kinds of silly doodles on it, and he started to pin them one by one on the clotheslines. He explained that those childish masterpieces of his were his thank-you notes to the caretakers and owners of the museum for ‘giving’ him the paintings he found that once adorned the now empty walls. 

He was a cute painting thief pala! 

Then I woke up. I found myself weeping because I didn’t want it to end. I wanted to know what happened next. 

Epilogue P.S.: these events happened in the dead of the night, in some obscure part of my overactive brain. And I’m not telling you who he is! ; )