Cigarettes

I used to know this girl. I'd go to her place to have a beer, the toilet and whatnot. She'd meet me down at the front after the respective phone call with a match. A match so exhausted I could smell her skin singe.

She never, ever, flinched though.

It was routine. I'd puff my cigarette twice and sit alone on the worn out couch. Worn down by pain, love and cigarette sin. I'd puff it twice more and take one long draw off the half filled glass of stale beer and we'd silence and watch the Earth move. No words, no emotion, just listen and watch.

We watched mostly through this picture frame that hung shantily on the living room wall. The futon that faced us relaxed eagerly suggesting the obvious but she and I weren't interested. The smoke filled the room and the picture changed moods letting the voices on the other side dictate the degree of aggression that was illustrated by it.

Cigarettes and empty ashtrays later we would awake from that moment we waited for. That shattering separation from reality that only that picture frame could give us.