Smoke

Character Scene: Man smoking (this is from my Short Story class that I'm taking, first draft, just a small scene--we had a picture of some random person that we had to write a scene about)  1

The shower was on. The radio was turned up. Steam was coming out of the bathroom, the mirrors were foggy and the room smelled like vanilla. The room was simple, unadorned, there were no photos, no art work, no clothes on the floor. It gave the impression of a hotel room. Nothing personal. Under the vanilla scent, old cigarettes and cologne overwhelmed the scenery. 2

He kept his cigarettes in a top drawer and in his jackets hanging in the closets—all expensive labels, mostly black suits and black shirts, nothing distinctive, everything flattering enough for him to stand out in the room if he had wanted to. Not that he ever did. 3

He got out of the shower, wrapped a towel around his waist. In eleven minutes he was downstairs in the lobby nodding to the doorman. He stepped out onto the pavement. He was wearing a black button-down shirt, open at the top, and black pants. He checked his watch—right on time he thought, with thirty seconds to spare. He walked, moving swiftly, weaving in and out of the crowd with ease. His face was blank, professional, well groomed: he appeared unaware of the everyday life going on around him, and yet he was taking in every movement, every suspicious head turned. One block to go, he thought, as he watched a man in a nearby café lecturing a waiter on the proper way to pour a glass of wine. 4

He lit a cigarette. He flicked the lighter into his shirt pocket and turned off onto a side road. There were fewer people here. He walked faster. The third door on the right, he thought subconsciously, remembering the exact words of his new contact. He glanced around the street, looking for the second office building on the left. There it was, he thought, it hasn’t been painted in years. He continued along the now narrowing sidewalk until he was almost in front of the building. He went down the alley to the right and veered sharply. The door was close, he estimated about 4 and a half feet. 5

The contact had given him directions. He pulled the handle of the door, not expecting it to be open. He saw the camera in the doorway swivel towards him. He stared into it. He knew it was running his picture through all the necessary networks, checking for any government affiliation. After ten seconds the handle clicked. He swung the door in; his contact had even told him which way the door went: “Push the door in, go down the hall, turn left…then wait.” The contact was stupid; he had expected an unarmed security guy, someone who would work cheap. 6

He turned left as he took in each camera, each hallway behind a closed door, every foot that lay between him and his destination, memorizing the building’s configuration. He stopped suddenly, in front of another door. He wasn’t surprised, the security was good: the door looked like a bank vault. No matter—he had a job to do. 7

“Well…hello Simon, we weren’t expecting you so soon.”8

This wasn’t the contact. Simon wheeled around; he also hadn’t given a name. Not many assassins did, he thought, and smiled…9

. . . 10

Simon woke up, pulling the covers off himself. He rolled over and climbed out of bed. He went into the bathroom, turned on the water. He left the light off. He leaned against the side of the sink, pressing his palms into the cold white tiles. One, two, three, four…he counted the tiles, running his eyes over each one, calming himself down. He turned the water off and walked back to his bed, leaving the blankets on the floor. He pulled on his clothes…he needed a run…“Push the door in, go down the hall, turn left…then wait,” he thought to himself. Yes, but this time he would be ready. He lit a cigarette and shut the door behind him. 11