Thursday, September 11, 2014

Iced Tea, Cigarettes, and Death

A gust of polluted wind blows in her direction, reminding her where she is, her soft black hair swaying gently across her face.

She looks around her without really looking, and her mind barely registers the people bustling past her. After several minutes of mindlessly staring at strangers, her eyes finally focus on her fingers – or what’s in between them— and she smiles bitterly. “My only companion in this world,” she mutters under her breath, “the best... and the worst.”

She puts her “companion” in between her moist lips and sucked in hungrily. She sighs inwardly as she feels the wonderful sensation only her menthol cigarette could ever give to her. She knows she should quit. Everyone tells her to. She chuckles darkly as she finds that amusing. Yeah, everyone. Well, where is everyone now? She is in the middle of a busy crowd and yet she has never felt more alone. But she’s used to it. That’s why she still hasn’t quit smoking. Because who the fuck cares? She doesn’t. That balding man in the wrinkled suit doesn’t. And that one picking at his nose obviously doesn’t too. She gazes at the approaching waiter whose only thing he probably cares about right now is refilling empty glasses. She feels a little envious – how simple life must be for this guy, no great expectations, and no one expecting him to do anything but refill glasses and not break anything. She stares at the waiter’s calloused hand as he puts iced tea into her glass.

"Thank you." Mr. Iced Tea Guy gave a tiny nod at her almost inaudible words. He left her immediately. There are napkins to be folded.

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