Her naked fingers shook and twitched as she pulled the unfinished cigarette out of the ashtray on the kitchen table. The plastic lighter snapped to life and after a few puffs, she sat back and inhaled deeply the smoldering taste of his cheap kisses.
He would return from his long walk, calm, wont to evade her complaints and exaggerations. And then, they would continue their evening, their bodies wrapped in and around themselves beneath her mother’s old sheets, cooled by the dusty ceiling fan above.
She took another hit.
She crossed her legs and waited.
John Gonzales is a writer living in California.
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