smokin' | louigan

one

logan bush was not a good guy. he was an okay one; most people would say he's great, but being great is superficial and boring and you never want to be called that.

he was tall and blond and didn't really care about anything. he passed through life in an endless tunnel of eternal darkness, flickers of memories and moments and senses burning him like small sparks.

his eyes stared at the window of the taxi, not at the outside world; not at the children running down the sidewalk laughing, a group of teens sipping slurpees, a group of old women window shopping at a new boutique.

logan's gaze rested on the glass. on the fine lines, the streaks, the smudges, the cracks. his right index finger glided over the window crank, the chipped black plastic rough on his skin. his mind was hazy and his body itched for another cig.

the taxi was hot and smelled of sweat, coffee, and bad decisions. he turned the crank of the window, his skin cooling with the breeze from the coast as the glass slid downwards with a soft groan. sea salt and sunshine touched his face, spreading warmth through his entire body.

but it was only physical. logan hadn't felt emotional bliss for a couple months and he was beginning to like the coldness of his heart; no more good morning texts, no more dates, no more feeling.

with a deep ache in his chest logan decided he definitely needed a cigarette.