The lighting of a cigarette is an art. You can’t verbally instruct someone how to light a cigarette without showing them first — the feel of the cigarette between the lips, the feel of that first surge of black, black smoke once you light the damned thing;
She did it in twos, one for me and one for her, with cupped hands as if whispering a secret.
I always did fancy looking at her. From afar, she looked intelligent, charming and interesting — but mainly it’s because that one time, her cleavage was peeking out in that little red number and I wanted her to touch my penis. The only time I saw her was by the smoking area. See, in buildings, they’ve forced smokers into these little spaces that could accommodate (and tolerate) them, usually beside garbage bins.
She had left her lighter one day, and asked if she could borrow a light. (And how exactly do you borrow light?!) From then on, we would smoke together, which was usually accomplished by ignoring my officemates when they were smoking beside me.
One day she wasn’t there. I had chanced upon her walking on her own in this mall near the office —
“I was on EL” (emergency leave, explaining why she wasn’t around that day)
“what was the emergency?”
“…carrying a child.”
She stopped smoking, and I smoked twice as much. (then I realized she wasn’t the only girl in the world, but I didn’t know that yet, it was 2007.)
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