breather | s.m

1

| 1 | O N E | 

I stand by the side of the pub and there's music sitting behind my ears. I'm smoking. I don't normally smoke but it's cold and I need something warm in my lungs, and Olive is smoking beside me so we stand and shudder in this brittle cold but say nothing.

People pass by in dribbles of colour, wild scarves and big coats, heads down, huddling past in clumps. I bounce slightly on the balls of my feet as I take another drag and feel the smoke in my lungs, my head spinning for a moment, and then it's cold again. I have never liked the cold. And yet I am here, in a cold, miserable city, my numb fingers around the rim of my hourly wage and I can't afford cigarettes and yet I find myself buying them, if only once every few months. I look over at Olive. She's sucking, really sucking, the end of the cigarette burning bright red before fading, rocking on her heels as smoke billows from her mouth and she closes her eyes. I turn back to the front. These people are faceless, hidden behind collars and beanies and scarves so all I see are pink cheeks bitten by frosted wind and the ends of fingers gripping bags and other hands.

I let out my smoke and then I see your face in the spaces between the grey. You're looking at me as you walk, your fists dug deep into your jacket, and you're with other people but you're looking at me. You look at me the entire walk past, this big, open stare, as if you'd never seen anything like me before. And I don't get looked at like that very often. So I purse my lips as the last of the smoke flushes out and I give you a small, obscure smile.

You turn your head so you can watch me, if only for a moment longer, and you catch this smile like someone turned a mirror and blinded you for a second.

I think you smile back but you're too far away to tell now.