Disclaims Now, on with the drabble. (I think it's drabble, anyway. The computer word-counter was doing strange things --;;)
" Funny …"
"…?"
"Cigarettes taste like sex now. And sex tastes like rainy mornings. Isn't that weird?"
A chuckle.
"I think you're getting your lines crossed again, Schu."
The tiny, crisp sound of burning tobacco. Lazy exhalation.
"Like rainy Sunday mornings when we don't have sex. When you always get up before me and make coffee that tastes like cigarettes."
"It's not raining."
"I said people tasted like honey, right? I don't even remember the last time I ate honey. But you …"
Another release of smoky breath.
"… are you. You make everything clear."
A small delicate not-syllable /mn/. The rustle of sheets.