Frank Sinatra crooned out of the speaker system connected to Montparnasse's iPod as Éponine tried her best to blow smoke rings.
"I'd give up if I were you, 'Ponine," Montparnasse said, lazily blowing smoke from his own cigarette into her face.
"I'll get it one day," Éponine smiled and crumpled her cigarette into her boyfriend's iron ashtray. He'd tell anyone that his great grandfather bequeathed it to him, but Éponine knew it was worth three euros, and he had stolen it from a second hand shop.
It was Saturday night, they were in their underclothes on his couch, and they were on the road to drunkenness.
It was a tradition, really. Their version of a date night. They'd get takeout, go back to his apartment, fuck for a while, and then lounge around getting wasted or high.
"Like painted kites, those days and nights, they go on and on," the dark haired man crooned along with the music. He was certainly no Sinatra, but his voice had a delicious and smoky edge that made Éponine's toes curl with delight.
She swiped the bottle of cheap rum from Montparnasse and took a deep swig. The alcohol was giving her head a pleasant buzz and she was entirely content.
"I could lie here forever, y'know," she whispered.
Montparnasse turned his bright green eyes on her and kissed her hard on the lips. His mouth tasted like smoke and alcohol, but no doubt hers did, too. He pulled away and grinned.
"Well," he grabbed the bottle from Éponine, ignoring her protests, and took a sip. "I haven't got any plans, so why not?"
She leaned over and nipped playfully at his ear lob as an affirmation. She had Montparnasse, shitty take-out food, alcohol and cigarettes. It would be a wonderful night.