You and Your Cigarettes

A Story by Meggy

A nonfiction blurb about my best friend and I.

We are in a country club. The line-dancing kind, not the tennis-whites kind. We've come here with a mish-mashed group of friends. The guy I'm aiming to hook-up with, the girl you fancy yourself in love with, and a few unimportant others. And yet, it is the two of us together, who slip away from the group after dancing and drinking for a while. It takes only a look for me to know what it is you need, and I quietly follow you off the dance floor, knowing no one will notice our departure. At least not for a while anyways. We go upstairs to the overhang where most of the tables sit empty. We choose one where we can keep an eye on both the dance floor and the stairs, in case anyone decides to follow us.

Your orange Zippo sputters and then flickers to life, briefly casting a bright orangey-yellow glow in the otherwise dimly lit club. The silhouette of your aquiline nose and the glimmer of your slate-blue eyes are the only things I can make out clearly. In your left hand you hold a single white cylinder, which you raise to simultaneously meet your bow-shaped lips and the golden flame of the lighter you hold in your right hand. You inhale, that first sweet sample of your favorite guilty pleasure, and exhale again.

The lighter disappears back into your pocket, and I lower my gaze away from your mouth, licking my own lips in hunger. My eyes fall upon the carton where it lies on the table, dark shadow beside the ashtray. Your brand of choice tonight is American Spirits. No cancerous chemicals for you; not tonight anyways. You only need the pure, heavenly pleasure of inhaling and exhaling again.

My gaze rakes up the lines of your torso, traveling upwards to meet your eyes. You smirk when our gazes touch, and I feel a blush heating up my cheeks. I quickly drop my look back to your lips and the cigarette perched loosely in them. Lazily, you inhale once more, pulling the joint out as you exhale. I follow the path your cigarette takes as you tap it into the ashtray. My eyes travel to your rangy fingertips furled loosely around the tightly rolled papers. You hold it lightly, in an attempt to hide the fact that it is a necessity of life for you.

Your hands are large, with long elegant fingers. Piano player's hands I would call them; though to my knowledge, you do not play. I want to kiss them, your pianist hands. But maybe that is just the alcohol speaking to me; I've been sneaking gulps of your drinks all night, and at this point I'm nice and fuzzy. Regardless of the why, I long to be that cigarette in your hands. To be surrounded by the warmth of your fingertips, as they caress lovingly.

Yes, I know that you care more for that little bit of paper in your hands than you do for me. To you, I'm just a pretty face; runner up to your first love, your true passion. Inhale, and exhale again. Your eyes glaze with pleasure. If I did not find it so beautiful, I would find it repulsive. I close my eyes as I hear you inhale again.

The grey smoke wafts gently in my direction and I look up. I'm startled to find that your face has moved closer still to mine. That's what I get for being tipsily introspective. Your face is close enough now that I can see the fine sheen of sweat on your upper lip, borne of vigorous dancing, no doubt. You puff on the cigarette once more, tapping the ashes out, blowing the smoke into my face. I inhale the dark sweet scent that will forever mark you in my mind. You stub the butt out, extinguishing its pleasurable warmth.

Ever so slowly, (at least through my drink-addled vision), you raise your hand to caress my face with those elegantly lanky fingers. I revel in the sheer pleasure that is your touch, for I know it cannot last long. Your attention to me is as short-lived as one of those small, white cylinders you love so much. Fleeting and flickering the same way as your cigarettes as they burn out in pleasure for you. But I can't bring myself to care. Right now, I'm happy to be the object your hands rest on, fingers curling in my hair, as you drag your lips to mine.

Our lips meet and I can taste that last puff of smoke on your tongue. It is sickeningly sweet, but I love it so. Your tongue probes my mouth, learning every nook and cranny as you run your fingers down my torso. One hand stops on my hip and your thumb rub small circles in the hollow of the bones. I sigh and tilt my head back with the ecstasy of it all.

A soft, slow country song comes on, bringing us back to the reality of the club. I flush with the thought of possible lookers on, but you don't seem to care as you pull me closer into the circle of your arms. We begin to sway to the beat, round and round in our lonely spot on the second floor. It is a slow dance that would almost be romantic, if we both didn't know better.

You are my best friend, and I am addicted to you more than you are to those damned cigarettes. Definitely more attracted to you than you are to me. And yet, I would not change a thing. Instead, I lose myself in our private dance, enjoying the feel of your arms wrapped around me. I know our flame burns and smolders only for a moment, and so I let myself have that moment. Just the one, of course.