Smoke

She took a drag of her cigarette. It was cool. Warm but cool. And soothing. Smoke seeped out her nostrils. She tapped the white cylinder, sending black snowflakes to the ground.1

It was cold outside. It was always cold. Except in summer. And spring. And the afternoon. But it was night now. Smooth, black, and menthol. Every night the same thing. A dark sky. A few lonely stars. In the fabric sky they were sewn close but up in space they were light years apart. Perspective is everying.2

She smiled, took another drag and tapped another snow storm onto the empty pavement. It felt like snow but it wouldn't snow. It never snowed. She wanted to crush ice. To experience that yellow inside, blue outsdie feeling of snow.3

The snow wasn't coming. A disapointment. The only thing that fell. Rain never totaled more than a few inches a year.4

It was cold though. She hated the cold. She used to drink coffee to warm the nights. Now she smoked. There were no bodies. Sometimes sweaters, but never warm, breathing bodies. She could give up smoking for bodies. Or coffee even. It was just a matter of convenience. Coffee's more expensive than cigarettes.5

She took another drag. The white cylinder had no breath left in it. She dropped it on the snowless concrete.6

Hot meets cold. Sizzle. Fizzle. She longed for one more drag. One more taste. But then she'd want another. It was midnight. She'd wait for morning.7

She went back inside and climbed the stairs to her room. She put the cigarettes in her bottom desk draw, in a purple purse, underneath her eigth grade diary and her Alanis Moorisette CD's.8

The bed was lonely. Big enough for two, filled with one. Maybe not an appropriate thought at fourteen, fifteen, sixteen ... however old she'd gotten. Days spun into years. Wasn't it just summer? Wasn't it just eight grade?9

First night of winter break, junior year. Not as busy as everyone said. No one ever mentioned what came during periods of nothing.10

She pulled the covers over her head. Another lonely winter. Another kissless new years. No mistle toe. No Valentine's Day spirit. It wasn't tragic, not even that sad.11

She took a deep breath and rolled over. No warm body. No suprise. It was right. It was better. She shouldn't be thinking about romance at sixteen. She should think school or something.12

Deep breath. No nicotine. No coffee. No warm body. Just a blanket and a heater.13