With his head raised, looking up to the sky, he slowly released the smoke. Something else seemed to have gone with it because suddenly his pose became more relaxed. For an instant, their eyes met again – Some kind of short story
«I’m really upset with you. I’m tired of everything being so dramatic.» These words drastically stopped his monologue. A gesture of confusion was intended to lighten the weight of that moment. «Why? Is it like this all the time?» A question was rather the perfect excuse to give the inevitable a little wait.
«I don’t know how long we can be together, but instead of enjoying it you always find a way to feel sad.» Walking near a burial ground was the perfect background for this lapidary intervention. A soft, leisurely tone made every sound in that sentence rumble with a deafening echo.
A long pause. Hands to the pocket. The one on the left side of the jacket. There are those who would say that next to the heart. From there came out in a mechanical act, without the need to look, a small yellow pack of Swan filters and a green pack of rolling papers. One of the filters went straight to the lips, while one of the papers was held between two fingers, index and middle.
From the other side of the jacket, this time in the inside pocket, came a green packet of tobacco. 30 g of presumed contraband with shocking pictures that no longer had any effect. After opening it and taking a pinch, he put it in the palm of his left hand, the same one that held the paper. After carefully distributing it, he placed the paper on top of the tobacco, then turned it over in one quick movement.
Now one could see the sticky side of the paper, where the filter would be placed as a guide to start shaping this fumarrete. This delicate and millimetric process occurred while the walk continued. With fine surgical dexterity, the thumbs, index, and middle fingers of both hands participated in this little ritual.
While both gazes remained distracted, looking away, trying not to meet, he answered. “That is very wise. Very wise». He brought the unfinished work close to his mouth. With a little saliva on the sticky part, the ciggy was ready to be rolled and sealed. Without waiting he put it on his lips and reached for the lighter in his pockets.
It wasn’t in his denim jacket. Nor in his trousers pockets. Checking on his black hoodie didn’t find it either. A deep sigh of resignation was the prelude to a new intervention, calm but devastating: “Sometimes I say wise things too. It’s either that or cry and run away.»
He had no choice but to look into her eyes. His mouth moved constantly, knowing he should say something, but he quickly closed it again. Perhaps not finding any worthwhile words, the silence was a better option.
With some desperation, he checked the pockets again, this time more carefully. The lighter had always been there, in the right pocket of his black jeans. He put the fumarette back on his lips and after several tries, the pink lighter offered him some fire. The first breath was deep and was held for several seconds.
With his head raised, looking up to the sky, he slowly released the smoke. Something else seemed to have gone with it because suddenly his composure became more relaxed. For an instant, their eyes met again. However, he decided to look at the floor and take a second puff.
They walked like this slowly for several yards, in silence while the sound of skaters doing tricks on their boards could be heard in the distance. As they approached the train station, she pointed to a transit post, deciding to bury this moment, without knowing that I would witness it and that you would read it: «My sticker is still there on that post.»