Blowing smoke

She was the kind of girl who lived her life like the ash on the end of a cigarette.

She was headed for a fall.  She was going down.  The only question was when the spent fuel was going to be flicked, whether by an index finger tapping on the top of the shaft, or by a thumb or middle finger filliping the butt from beneath.

Either way what got her to this point was going to be jettisoned with all the solemnity of the end of a kiss.  And with the guesswork gone, all that could be hoped was to hold for a moment the swirl of smoke from a sweet grass smudge.

At that moment she thought about how she smoked, and whether she blue the smoke up over someone's head by the way she pursed her lips, and how long she held the drag in, and what it did to her eyes, making them wide and dilated, and what kind of cough she would yield, and whether it would hack on so as to be impolite.

And she would never tell whether the cigarette was just something for her to hold, or whether it gave relief, or was a factor in weight loss, or was an appealing flavour, or was a fashion statement, otherwise made her feel great.

What was never crystal clear was when she was going to be ground to a halt.  Until then she lived ever so slightly dangerously.