Smoke and Mirrors
PostPosted: Tue Aug 07, 2007 9:16 pm
He breathed out. Casually. A thin smoke lingered in front of him only for a brief while, but the smell remained. Always that tell-tale sent. Glancing down at the cigarette, it was limp, almost soggy. Not the proverbial best of the herd. He took it out, flailed it around till the embers died, then dropped it in his pocket. There were never any trash cans around when you needed one. Another person might have just tossed it on the ground, but he'd always harbored a deep resentment for the sort of careless person who would do such a thing. Down the road, there would be a trash bin. He'd toss it then. In the meanwhile, he'd wait.
He was waiting for her.
She'd never known her mother. All she had ever had was a dad, a thoroughly lovable and well-meaning man with a distinct taste for too many cigarettes. He led an otherwise healthy life aside from that habit; he’d seen the commercials, read the pamphlets, even attended a doctor’s panel all on the urges of friends, family, and society at large. The man couldn’t have cared less. He continued smoking. And in a way, that became part of him to the point where being seen without a cigarette would have caused no end of identity confusion. She had always taken comfort in that. She’d know where he was, around their home, sleeping well under the aura that confirmed her father’s closeness, his reliability. That smell protected her, watched over her. Coming home to it had always heralded his waiting for her in just the next room over.
Her father’s death had come as a surprise to nearly everyone. Not that immortality was popular at the time, but rather the cause of death being unrelated with his chain-smoking. A simple passing in the night. His will jokingly suggested cremation for the lobby ashtray. People smiled, but only she laughed. Crying did not come naturally in their relationship as much as the laughter did, and so it became a substitute. Her father had known the difference between her laughs of joy and laughs of sorrow.
And so did he too learn these differences.
Removing another cigarette, he rummaged around his other pockets for the lighter. Rain began to drizzle down from the evening sky. He had never smoked prior to meeting her. He had seen the same commercials, pamphlets and brochures, and panels as her father, and conversely heeded them. It was only after his death that he understood why he had continued his bad habits. That was why he’d taken it up in his absence; to fill that hole in her heart. He never had a talent for words, and so he chose to express himself with the clearest sign he could think of.
The rain decided to make itself more obvious. Looking for appropriate shelter, he saw her. She was walking down the sidewalk towards him. Back when they were younger, and the rain had come, she’d always make it a point to bring two umbrellas. One for him, one for her. He was always forgetting important things, like his umbrella. Always. She found it so amusing to bring him a spare. But it was different this time. She didn’t have two umbrellas.
She had one. Large enough for two.
Click, click. The lighter flickered.
He was waiting for her.
She'd never known her mother. All she had ever had was a dad, a thoroughly lovable and well-meaning man with a distinct taste for too many cigarettes. He led an otherwise healthy life aside from that habit; he’d seen the commercials, read the pamphlets, even attended a doctor’s panel all on the urges of friends, family, and society at large. The man couldn’t have cared less. He continued smoking. And in a way, that became part of him to the point where being seen without a cigarette would have caused no end of identity confusion. She had always taken comfort in that. She’d know where he was, around their home, sleeping well under the aura that confirmed her father’s closeness, his reliability. That smell protected her, watched over her. Coming home to it had always heralded his waiting for her in just the next room over.
Her father’s death had come as a surprise to nearly everyone. Not that immortality was popular at the time, but rather the cause of death being unrelated with his chain-smoking. A simple passing in the night. His will jokingly suggested cremation for the lobby ashtray. People smiled, but only she laughed. Crying did not come naturally in their relationship as much as the laughter did, and so it became a substitute. Her father had known the difference between her laughs of joy and laughs of sorrow.
And so did he too learn these differences.
Removing another cigarette, he rummaged around his other pockets for the lighter. Rain began to drizzle down from the evening sky. He had never smoked prior to meeting her. He had seen the same commercials, pamphlets and brochures, and panels as her father, and conversely heeded them. It was only after his death that he understood why he had continued his bad habits. That was why he’d taken it up in his absence; to fill that hole in her heart. He never had a talent for words, and so he chose to express himself with the clearest sign he could think of.
The rain decided to make itself more obvious. Looking for appropriate shelter, he saw her. She was walking down the sidewalk towards him. Back when they were younger, and the rain had come, she’d always make it a point to bring two umbrellas. One for him, one for her. He was always forgetting important things, like his umbrella. Always. She found it so amusing to bring him a spare. But it was different this time. She didn’t have two umbrellas.
She had one. Large enough for two.
Click, click. The lighter flickered.
Well-written line. Your prose throughout the whole story is pleasing, actually.