Her shadow marked a single silhouette against the near black brick of the wall, easily missed if not for the orange ember arching its way to and from her lips. It was a mistake finding her out there, really.
She was invisible without the cigarette in her hand.
If anyone was to say that he started smoking because of her, he'd kill them. That wasn't the reason, of course, that he bought his first pack of something too expensive and sat in his room to practice the inhale, cleaning away the rough edges of the harsh tobacco burn to reveal a smooth, long pull. No, he was interested in the masculinity of it, in its message of general apathy, in the feeling of cement walls rough against his back behind buildings in deserted alleyways. That he would have some pretty company didn't hurt, of course, but she was hardly the reason.
She didn't say a word the first night he joined her to smoke – scarcely looked in his direction, barely acknowledged his presence. But the silence wasn't cold, even though it was the middle of a frigid November. Before he lit up, his breath clouded away from his mouth as a testimony to the season, and the haze of his discarded drags seemed to last forever as they were aided by condensation. Her cigarette was spent far before his was, and she flicked it away, moving inside as it continued to smolder on the pavement.
Sometimes he was the first one outside. Sometimes, she was minutes early or whole hours late. Sometimes she didn't come at all, as far as he could tell. They never spoke, never felt the need to, except once.
She was uncharacteristically without a light, and had to break their silence to ask is she could bum one. The silver rectangle lighter had a dull gleam as he clicked it open to offer a flame. She had ducked her head to pull the fire into her cigarette, into her lungs, and he couldn't help but smell her hair as it went by. There was a soft hint of shampoo, of something artificial, fruity. But the central smell was far more natural, far more preferable.
The one night when speaking seemed somehow acceptable, he told her that her hair smelled of tobacco and that it was nice. He left before she did that night, and didn't look back to see her smile.
So this wasn't supposed to exist, but I just thought the first part needed a companion piece from a different perspective. Also, I have discovered that I love alliterations. They sound so sexy when read aloud. Perfect for our hero.