 I’m thirteen. I'm in my relative’s garage, where we would all hangout. The garage has always been dull. Its gray walls stacked with boxes of dusty car parts, gig equipment and miscellaneous gadgets. It has an old, ripped, black sofa with stains discarded from their living room, and a stackable shoe-rack that exists in most garages, including mine. The garage always smells like hookah, that culturally-specific water pipe that is very popular in the Middle East and many parts of Asia. I could always sniff the burnt smell of whatever flavor was used the night before.
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