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Description
She smokes.
It floats around her skin, brushes off on me when I graze her wrist. It clings to my clothes, reminds me of her whenever I step outside and the orange-yellow ends are scattered on the side of the road.
The smell wraps around her, hiding any scent of perfume she might have put on, lingering in her hair, on her mouth.
They say that kissing a smoker is like licking an ashtray.
They’re wrong.
It’s all the things a regular kiss is, all the things that a kiss with someone who chews gum instead of smoking would be, but with a flavor that sticks around long after the moment is over, when you’re no longer connected at the mouth and waist and your hands aren’t pressed to her face.
It’s like a campfire, but harder to find. Nobody smokes like she does, slowly, taking pauses to breathe, to talk, to laugh.
Even the same brand of cigarette doesn’t smell the same when someone else smokes it. It’s different, not as sultry, not as sweet.
Other people smoke to kill a stronger addiction, because it’s a habit, or because they like it.
She smokes to bring flavor to life, to breath, to laughter.