She struck the match against the side of the building and cradled the ignited end towards the cigarette dangling from her lips. She inhaled once, long and deep, as she waved the burning stick in the air to extinguish it.
She hated the habit. The craving. The addiction.
When she was twelve, she had tried smoking for the first time. One of the other girls from the orphanage had stolen a pack from the supervisor. They lit up in the bathroom after the lights went out. She remembered the stinging sensation as the smoke filled up her lungs. She coughed like she had swallowed a squirming insect and passed the cigarette to the next girl, embarrassed that she hadn’t been able to hold in the smoke for as long as the others.
Her mouth formed a small O and the smoke filtered through her lips. She watched the chain of O’s float into the cold night. She poked one of her fingers through a cloud of smoke and broke the circle.
She smiled to herself as she recalled the night in the orphanage’s locked bathroom. Things had definitely changed.
In more than one way.
She kicked at the dead leaves on the sidewalk. Her black high-heel boots clicked against the cement. A breeze snaked around her body. She was clad in black: mid-length skirt, blouse, lightweight jacket. Black was usually reserved for missions, secret meetings, a covert op.
What she was doing wasn’t any different.
“Do you have a light?”
She looked up at the man’s voice and raised a brow.
“Please?” he said.
She took the book of matches out from her pocket and handed it to him. She watched him light up his own cigarette.
“Smoking is bad,” she said.
He took a drag of his cigarette. “Yeah, so are a lot of things in life.”
A moment passed before any of them said anything else.
“My father smoked,” he said suddenly.
Her dark eyes studied him. He seemed to become sad at the mention of his father.
“Did you learn it from him?” she asked.
He stared at the cigarette in his hand. “He didn’t teach me much.”
“What kind of things did he teach you?”
His hardened face looked over at her. “That everything is flawed.”
She placed her cigarette in her mouth. “This is my flaw.”
“The smoking?”
She half-smiled. The cigarette moved with her lips.
He seemed to understand her. He tossed his cigarette to the ground and put it out with his foot.
She imitated him before reaching inside her pockets for something else. A pack of gum. She pulled out two sticks: one for him, one for her.
Before they concealed their smoky breath, they had to mingle it.
His hands reached for her waist. She wrapped her arms around his neck. Their mouths met in a slow dance. They became twisted: tongues between teeth, hands through hair, body on body. When they came up for air, they leaned forward as if the other would be strong enough to support them.
She clutched the lapel of his jacket. “How long?”
The only thing he could do was shake his head. Just like the other times. “I don’t know.”
It seemed like they would never get their answer. How long were they supposed to be doing this? Meeting like this?
He finally moved away and stuck the piece of gum in his mouth. Concealing the residue of cigarette smoke. Concealing her.
After he was gone, she exchanged her gum for another cigarette.
She hated the habit. The craving. The addiction.
But she needed it.