The smoke billows out through the screen of the window and she watches,
smiling. She watches as the spirals descend into the outside world and
evaporate within the clutches of the wind. And then she smiles some more,
knowing that this is the only power she has over him. The only thing he
doesn't know about her.
She has become a bona fide chain smoker.
It's some method of control, she thinks, or some severe lack thereof. Control of all the things that run through her head on a daily basis. Which, for the most part, is him. And the lack of control for that very same thing.
She can just imagine his reaction-the disbelief, the horror. In that instant, she will become a complete stranger to him and she will love every minute of it.
Because the truth is, he knows too damn much as it is. And he's well aware of the fact.
She hates the way he smirks as if he knows exactly what she's thinking.
Even if he usually does. Or the way he finishes her sentences as if he knew what she was going to say. Even if he did. She can't stand the fact that he knows her because she has no more reasons to keep herself away from him. Her logic before all of this was that he didn't know her. But now he does. And she's dug herself a finely crafted hole.
So she smokes, sucking down the cigarettes with a newfound expertise.
And she smiles.
And she smiles some more when he greets her the next day, then looks at her curiously and mumbles something about her smelling like cigarettes.
She wraps her hands around the cardboard box, her lifeline, and smiles.
She has become a bona fide chain smoker.
It's some method of control, she thinks, or some severe lack thereof. Control of all the things that run through her head on a daily basis. Which, for the most part, is him. And the lack of control for that very same thing.
She can just imagine his reaction-the disbelief, the horror. In that instant, she will become a complete stranger to him and she will love every minute of it.
Because the truth is, he knows too damn much as it is. And he's well aware of the fact.
She hates the way he smirks as if he knows exactly what she's thinking.
Even if he usually does. Or the way he finishes her sentences as if he knew what she was going to say. Even if he did. She can't stand the fact that he knows her because she has no more reasons to keep herself away from him. Her logic before all of this was that he didn't know her. But now he does. And she's dug herself a finely crafted hole.
So she smokes, sucking down the cigarettes with a newfound expertise.
And she smiles.
And she smiles some more when he greets her the next day, then looks at her curiously and mumbles something about her smelling like cigarettes.
She wraps her hands around the cardboard box, her lifeline, and smiles.