Smoker

I can’t really feel the cold anymore. My mind is on other things. Red lips, blue smoke, white snow, black sky. She takes another drag, blows another cloud at the streetlights. The sickly yellow glow is temporarily obscured by a haze of expelled chemicals. We’re talking about the play, about her dog, about the city. The smell hasn’t bothered me in years. It used to sting my eyes, make me sneeze, make my ears pop, but now it just reminds me of people I love. She finishes, blows out the final twisting blue serpent. My fingertips are black with grease and dust from the mechanisms, hers faintly orange from the nicotine and tar. They curl together, and she leans in close to me. I can taste lipstick and tobacco. Walking down the road, headed nowhere, everything is right. I can feel Death, closer to her than me, but for now, the only thing I care about is our lives. And for now, our lives are better than they’ve ever been.