Cigarettes and Small Talk

She sat on the windowsill smoking a cigarette. Her eyes peering aimlessly out onto the city rushing by down below. Her silk robe hung carelessly off her bare shoulder and draped open as she brought her legs to her chest. She inhaled, feeling the smoke rush into her lungs. Twirling, taunting her life, threatening to overtake her. Then she exhaled slowly, watching it all escape. She watched the smoke drift out the partially open window and craved its freedom. Its careless, wandering path to nowhere. Its reckless abandon. Her fingers brushed down her cheek, and rested on her lips and chin.

“There is something very intrinsic about men,” she said, inhaling once more. “They are simple-minded creatures who think women’s one true purpose on this earth is to please them. Because that’s how this almighty God thought up the world. F*****g deranged psychopaths. The lot of them. If there was a God, I think he would want men and women to look at each other as equals. No matter what, everyone would be equal. But no. No. Instead, this God created ‘man’ as the dominant of the species. While women are supposed to lie on their backs and take it as these self-accommodating men f**k them into submission.”

She shook her head. Inhale. Slow exhale.

“Their God gave them genitals on the outside of their body so everyone would know who the man is. So he would be respected, worshiped. Fawned over.”

Inhale. Exhale.

“He made them with masculine features so that people would turn and think: ‘He’s strong. He can take care of his own.’ While women are supposed to seem fragile and soft. Maybe that’s what makes women more beautiful. Maybe that’s why I am attracted to women instead of men. Because they aren’t domineering. They are gentler. Kinder. More loving. They aren’t as self-satisfying as men. But women are put on this post of submissive animals that, in the eyes of man, are not supposed to be free. A man can marry a woman, but a woman cannot marry another woman. As is the Christian belief. All going back to this one God. F*****g lunatics.”

She put out her cigarette butt in a glass of water.

“If I were to talk to ‘God,’ I think my first question would be: ‘Why did you give us women our own thoughts if we are supposed to abide by the rules and guidelines you happened to lay out in your powerful book of wisdom?’ or ‘Then why did you make women so f*****g beautiful?’”

She smiles lightly and closes her eyes, pressing her forehead on her knees.

“Christians, when asked their views on homosexuality, say that it is a sin. They say God does not forgive the gays, lesbians, bisexuals and so forth. They say those people will go to hell when they die, just because of their choice of sex partner. But sex is not some magical, spiritual thing. Unless of course you have partaken in magic mushrooms or some form of DMT; then possibilities are endless.

“Sex, in my opinion, can mean several different things. It doesn’t have to mean a male organ penetrating a female. You can f**k yourself, in the literal sense. Men do it all the time. Though the subject is hushed, females do it too. No matter how Christian they say they are, they have fucked themselves at least once in their lifetime"if not thousands of times.”

She paused.

“I didn’t know I was gay until I was eighteen. I had dated men"no"boys before but I never felt any drive to be with them. I found some attractive, but I never fantasized about them. I didn’t really fantasize about anyone… I was naïve to everything around me. I didn’t even think of the possibility that I might be gay. But looking back on my life, my younger years, there were signs.”

A cop car’s siren lit up the street and she tapped out another cigarette.

“F**k. There were so many. I don’t even know how I missed it.” She pulled out her lighter and ran her thumb across the top, igniting the fluid, and brought the flame up to her new cigarette taking a long drag.

“I guess the main thing was that I always knew I could never truly please my parents. And that kills me sometimes. I’m not the girl they wanted me to be. And there’s nothing more they can do to make me into the person they are comfortable with. Because I'm not going to marry that good Mormon boy. I'm not going to have those nice Mormon kids. I'm not gonna shut up and be subservient. I'm not gonna set the dinner table and pretend like bad things don’t happen. Because when you don’t talk about things, they get worse."

She stared off for a moment, holding her minor addiction between her middle and pointer fingers letting the ashes fall onto the floor. Her small gray cat trotted across the wood soundlessly, searching for her black playmate.

“You know that moment? The one where you are kissing someone and you forget yourself and your life and your troubles? That one moment of intimacy that seems so real, you believe it. Or the moment when he takes off your clothes and looks at you like you’re the most interesting person in the world. And he smiles. And you think, ‘Okay. I can do this. Maybe I can make this work.’ But then the lights turn on and he throws you your shirt and leaves to go outside for a cigarette. And that moment ends. Because even after all that work that you did to feel something, you are left with fucked up hair and an emptiness in your stomach. And when the pain gets to be too much to bear again, you find someone else to fill that void. That empty rumbling in your chest that makes you cry when you go outside at night and look at the sky and it is clear and you can see every star. Every single one. And you feel small again. And you remember. You remember that night. You remember the rain and the dark ride home. The way his breath smelled like old cigarettes and the way his eyes were void of any love. The way his hands felt as he ripped off your shirt. My shirt.”

She took a breath and looked at the woman lying in her bed, staring at her intensely. “I wanted to wait, you know. To have sex. I mean I grew up Mormon for God’s sake. It was drilled into my brain since I was young. ‘You must be married before you have sex. It is a sin against God to have premarital sex.’ Blah. Blah. Blah. You know, that same bullshit you hear in church every Sunday. The crap they spout about being abstinent. And you see all those lovely blonde perfect couples with seven kids that look exactly like them and you think: ‘Hey! I want that when I get older.’

“That’s a f*****g lie. I never wanted that s**t. I hated kids. Even when I was a child I hated kids. I didn’t understand them and their stupid ways. I never stooped to their level. I tried at one point but I couldn’t do it. It was too inane for me. I enjoyed being alone more than anything else. I didn’t really have a lot of good friends. Sure I had a few that I called my best friends, but by the time high school rolled around, they were all gone.”

“I’m your friend,” the woman said, getting out of bed to come sit on the arm of the chair. Her body was incredible. Perfect small breasts, flat stomach, gorgeous blue eyes. She kissed her gently on the mouth and ran her fingers through her hair. “I’m not going anywhere.”

“You better not.” They kissed again and finished the cigarette.

Reviews

[Growan]

The way you word things is really quite beautiful. Your descriptions are strong and vivid and help to create an image in the reader's mind. As a Christian and firm believer in God I have a little conflict with the story however, the concept is very good and I especially was drawn to your description of the smoke. "Reckless abandon". Our writing styles are similar and if you have the chance please review my work. Would love to hear your feedback. I enjoyed this very much. XOXO