Cityscapes of Nicotine
2003-10-09 @ 9:59 p.m.


...and she made her way to the back of the bus and thought to herself that public transportation was the worst means of travel imaginable, and to some extent she was right.

She'd spent too many minutes sitting and waiting around for this. Too many...

She sat next to a boy that looked much like her. Apathy-worn Converse adorned his feet, and he slumped, lazilly, in his seat. He watched her, and in turn, she watched him.

She sat through stop after stop, letting the hours slip past the holes in her soles and in her soul and in her denim jacket.

...and then she finally came to her stop, so she got off, and He came along with her.

She walked down dingy sidewalks and the cars passed and honked at her.

She turned, and there He was, still behind her, and he smiled.

Debating whether or not she should talk to him, she kept walking. All she wanted was to get where she was going.

A homeless man slouched against a vacant store, and asked if she could spare some change.

Digging into her pocket, she took her bus fare and tossed it toward him, keeping her head down. She couldn't care less how it was she got home from here.

...and the streetlights made shadows of her on the pavement beneath her feet. Long shadows in front of her, and she stepped on them and the darkness they cast on the bubble gum wrappers and cigarette stubs littering the ground. She stepped on herself. She was getting ahead of herself.

Head down, she reached into the lining of her denim jacket, and pulled out a pack of cigarettes. Greedily, she opened the plastic keeping her fingers from ripping at her indulgence; her addiction.

She nearly dropped them as she finally got the plastic wrap off, as she finally dug open at the carton, as she finally got ahold of one of these cylindrical tubes of tobacco and held it to her lips.

Hastily, she placed the carton of cigs back into the lining of her jacket, and searched for a matchbook. A lighter. Nothing.

He came up behind her, and held lighter to the cigarette pressed between her lips. It caught fire at the tip, and all she could do was stare into the orange glow of the flickering flame.

Thanks she whispered, taking the cigarette between her fingers and placing it back between her lips.

She took a drag and released it into the air around her.

Nicotine, arsenic-poisoning in our air, second-hand smoke; she was feeding it all to Him, and he breathed her in along with this addiction. Her addiction.

Second-hand smoke; the true smell of the city.

Now is when everything felt right. Everything felt in place.

He took her by the hand, her free hand, and for some reason, this didn't startle|bother her.

...and they walked on in her cloud of smoke.

She'd spent too many minutes|hours|days|years sitting and waiting around for this. Too many...

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

This entry is entirely too long.

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Listening to: "All The Pretty Girls Go To The City" by Spoon



<<before - after>>

The Weather Underground - 2008-11-12
- - 2008-05-06
She knows I can read. - 2008-05-06
William Jacobson - 2008-05-02
Lost Boys - 2008-04-30



everything © Claudia (2003-2008)