There is the moment when a match is struck against the side of a matchbox, the slight click and the sudden hiss of a flame...it is usually quiet but then it is applied against the awaiting cylinder of tobacco and then it flares as she inhales...
She inhaled...a deep inhalation that revealed it had been a long week. Exceptionally long. She wore her frustration like a color...a gray that wore on her.
But to him it was an orange. It was the color of the match, the end of the cigarette. She blew the smoke plume at him, an indication that he was around. She brushed some hair from her eyes...she had recently had a haircut and a color, and her fingers were still trying to figure out the best look. Regardless the hair mirrored her eyes and it was warming. Chocolate.
She looked tired. Mostly in her eyes, a sense of things. Not in her skin or her face. Rather she wore thin in her stare.
She half smiled at him, apologizing for her quietness.
He got up, leaned over and kissed her. She tasted of her day...her smoke, her hours. She tasted of the lack of sleep and she tasted like her usual candy.
Against her, behind her a sky exploded and turned colors against hours...there was a rumor of a Nor'easter and it was getting old...this cold.
But the mash up of his lips and hers, the burn of her flaring cigarette and the smoothness he was trying to bring to her were a warmth.
She was trying not to slowly melt.
He was trying to heat her from the inside.
She inhaled and blew purple smoke towards him...he accepted anything that had once been inside of her.
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