I sputter, trying to take some of it in.
“You’ll always be a rubbish smoker.” He says.
I pretend not to listen. Pretend not to care. Keep my self busy with this little cancer stick.
Wind whips about the ashes. Flecks sit on my dark skin, like dirty grey blemishes.
“Why are you ignoring me?” He asks now.
I watch him, he twitches.
He wants to reach out and touch me, but decides against it.
He coughs, I spit.
There is no romance here. The promise of what was once, or could have been, burns away as quickly as this little disgusting cigarette. Staining my fingers.
Choke. Cough. Inhale, then exhale.
I flick the filter at him, and leave.