"I hate the way you smoke."
He exhaled, took a drag, and held it in his lungs. He always saw the smoke as water, rising up a column in laminar flow. If he didn't smoke the way he smoked, he didn't see it, and it didn't feel like smoking.
"Yeah, well. You smoke like a girl."
"....I am a girl."
"....So you are."
He blew out a string of smoke, and felt the wind's fingers push at his hair.
"I like your hair."
"Thank you. I thought you would."
And so they stood there, staring at each other's feet, listening to the lock stream by, as the sunset turned the water a deeper shade of purple with every passing degree.