Extra Credit

Breathe in. Breathe out.

Cool air and a glowing cigarette composed thick clouds of smoke around our faces. Rattling, dull keys jingled against each other when she attempted to open the broken lock to her apartment. The dim, dying lights flickered as she wedged the door open, nearly breaking her key. We entered the biting room, and a shiver shot down my spine despite the thickness of my jacket. It took several moments after she flicked the light switch for the quivering lights to take on their full brightness. She nonchalantly unpacked her work onto her dilapidated kitchen table, and I held my breath as it threatened to crumble with every movement. But to our luck, it never did. The young woman glided over to her modest kitchen and started to make our usual cups of coffee. I hated the bitter taste and told her once, but she still continued to make them. She smoothly poured mine into a rich brown mug, and her's into her favourite cracked mug labeled "Tears of Children". She removed her trademark cigarette from her full lips and we both took a brief sip. It was burnt as per usual, but she liked bitter. She sat down at her table, crossing her legs revealing the smallest glimpse of garters between dark stockings and an even darker skirt. A loud sound emitted from her cup hitting the surface, once again threatening to collapse, but never doing so. She took a long drag from what was left of her cigarette before she placed another between her teeth and lit it with the slowing embers of the butt, creating an everlasting chain. The scent, although new, felt reminiscent and always relaxed me when it belonged to her.

I glanced about her simple flat, it consisted of one large room that had a kitchen, and she kept an oaken night stand, an old, dusty coffee table in the center of the room, and a worn out couch she once discovered on the side of the street to spend the nights on. Like clockwork, I orbited around it, spending my time in the flat sprawled and exposed on it. Just as she asked me to. Across the room stood a large bookshelf, its height matching almost that of the ceiling's. Intricate patterns surrounded carvings of several regal lions, the bookshelf was built from fine mahogany, the rich sienna hue highlighting the curves of every design, smooth and without a hint of laceration. Every shelf was to the brim with various books ranging from thick hardcover books, to paperback novelettes. Her collection was a wide spectrum of elegant and refined works. The mere sight of it sent me into awe. I saw with her cigarette at the end of its life, she placed another in her lips and continued the chain of embers, She glanced down at the work on her table and tugged those luscious ebony locks into a loose ponytail and brought out her infamous crimson pen, clicking it and pressing it towards the papers. After all, she would never let us mark our own work.