The Smoke

We sat a hands distance away. She tore the plastic off the packet and pulled out a cigarette.

⠀⠀ “I don’t like cheap cigarettes”, she said as she lit the cigarette and took a long drag on it.

She let the smoke stay inside her for a few moments- as if examining how it feels.

She sat there – legs crossed, cigarette in the left hand, elbow resting on the left knee. She slowly blew out the smoke. Her eyes looked thoughtful. ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀

“If you stay with me, you will die of passive smoking” “No, I won’t”. ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ Maybe I won’t mind dying of her smoke.

Silence.

She then asked me to pass the newspaper. She tapped the ash off the cigarette on it. ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ “Isn’t my smoking bothering you?” ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀

“No. I am used to it. I am from an engineering college. Everybody has it there, so I am used to it”, I lied.

I kept staring at her as she continued her romantic affair with the cigarette. ⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ “What are you thinking?” she asked. “Nothing in particular” “You never say what’s on your mind… You should learn from me”

I stared a bit more. ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀

“I should go now”, she said. She gave the cigarette one final drag and threw the butt on the paper. She got up to leave. ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀

“Stay”

“I will come back again”

She never did.

The smoke never left

#Poems #smoke