Smoke

She smoked.

Cigarettes are death, I said.

She smiled. Yes, she said, blowing smoke into my face, I suppose so.

She paused.

What does it feel like?

Warm, I said.

That’s the appeal of death.

It was a peculiar way of putting it but I understood what she meant. I had nothing to say in response so I stood there, leaning against the stone wall like a dog without a bone, voyeuristically watching as she slowly killed herself.

She took one last draw and stubbed the cigarette delicately on the flat surface of the wall until all the embers had turned to cold ash. She walked over to the bin and dropped the paper carcass into a refuse of crap. Death adjourned.

What are you up to, she asked.

Nothing much, I said.

The wind snaked through her hair.

Nothing to live for?

Only the moment.

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