The smoke twisted in gray curls, always slowly. In its oscillation, it revealed sometimes green, sometimes black. It danced, the strong smell ingrained in the environment and its occupants. Mouths created more as time went by, the windows closed.
The cigarette alternated hands and lips, not necessarily in this order. Curls reaching out for a pale shoulder, hints of green tea that nicotine could not suppress, a pink and slightly asleep tongue wetting the lips.
For a moment, or some more, the smoke travels from microcosm to microcosm, barred by teeth and propelled by sighs. But it eventually escapes, no one knows for sure where from.
The hands contrast with each other and with the dark wood of the center table. It still rains, and the clouds' white light taints the smoke with shadows. Whispers trapped in the skin of the back of the neck, lips exhaling ashes against a wrist. Fingers trace veins, and the smoke skips once more the middleman, curling away among lips and lips.
The cold skin burns, the foggy eyes shine. The taste of nicotine is bitter in the back of the throat. Thunders and tremors.
Inhale.
Exhale.
A lithe hand searches for a lighter.