GULLIBLE

                                    

                                          
CANDIDATE  THREE - ANTHONY MATA
Seven Weeks Ago
July 24th; 2040
Joy Swift's Point of View
The party is a total snooze-fest, and I'm barely holding on. The music is lukewarm at best, the conversations are dry, and to top it off, the only "adult" drink in sight is a bowl of vodka punch that looks suspiciously like a Capri Sun. I wander over to the snack table, scanning for anything remotely interesting. Grabbing a cup, I pour myself some punch, hoping for a spark of excitement.
One sip later, I nearly spit it back out. Just regular punch. No vodka. No nothing.
I glance over at Betty, who's leaning against the wall, scrolling on her phone. "Who throws a party and doesn't bring alcohol?" I complain, holding the cup up like it's evidence in a crime scene.
"It's Rebecca's birthday," Betty replies flatly, barely looking up. "Humor her."
"Fine," I grumble, setting the cup down with more force than necessary. "But I need to step out for a smoke before I lose my mind."
I grab a cigarette from my purse and head outside, grateful for the escape. The night air is cool and crisp, a welcome change from the stuffy atmosphere inside. I find a spot on the porch, lean against the railing, and fish out my lighter.
Flick. Nothing.
Flick. The flame dances for a second before a gust of wind snuffs it out.
"Come on," I mutter, trying again. The wind seems to mock me, blowing harder every time the flame flares up. My frustration grows, and I clutch the cigarette tighter, like that'll somehow fix the problem.
"Need a hand?" a voice calls from behind me.
I turn around, my frustration melting into mild curiosity. A guy I vaguely recognize from inside is leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed. He's got a lazy smile, the kind that doesn't try too hard, and a black hoodie that looks way too warm for the weather.
"Depends," I say, holding up the cigarette and lighter. "You got magic hands or something?"
He chuckles, stepping forward. "Something like that." He pulls a lighter from his pocket—sleek, metallic, the kind you know someone paid too much for. "Windproof," he explains with a small smirk.
"Well, aren't you prepared."
He takes the cigarette from my fingers, placing it between his own. With a flick of his lighter, the tip glows orange. He hands it back, the faint scent of tobacco mixing with the crisp night air.
"Thanks," I say, taking a long drag. The familiar burn settles me a little, and I lean back against the railing.
"You don't look like you're having much fun in there," he comments, tucking the lighter back into his pocket.
"Because I'm not," I admit, exhaling a cloud of smoke. "This party is...tame. Like high school tame. I'm starting to think the punch is spiked with water."
He laughs at that, low and genuine. "Yeah, Rebecca's parties aren't exactly wild. But they've got their charm. Sometimes."
"Charming how?" I raise an eyebrow, skeptical.
"Well," he says, leaning on the railing beside me, "it's not every day you meet someone so blunt they'll roast the host's party while still standing outside her house."
I smirk, flicking ash onto the ground. "What can I say? I'm honest. Anyway, what's your excuse? Why are you out here instead of inside making small talk about...whatever boring thing people are talking about in there?"
He shrugs. "Needed some air. And apparently, to play hero with a cigarette."
"Hero, huh?" I eye him with mock suspicion. "So, do I owe you a favor now? Is that how this works?"