Short Story

 Cup clicks down, smooth on the rough brick walkway. My eyes flick up(the way he'd like it) to find him giving me what looks like my morning coffee or tea.

 (whichever he's decided is best.)

 Adjust my eyes back down to peer into the porcelain. It's not so dark;must be tea. Making my eyes dance, trying to get him to say something. The first of the morning conversations.


 'You smell like smoke.'


His voice comes and my eyes become fixed far away.

 Beginning my rhetoric, consoling the evergreen opposite me. Patches spindling out of control.  A lone fiery ladybug, scavenging over the leaves, hunting for aphids. The leaves are plump with moisture, infecting it with the sky. It's cloudy like my mind and my lungs.

Reach behind my head with one arm and fumble for the flower pot full of mini cigars and butts of cheap cigarettes with white filters. In the pot my hand also finds a small tin case in one corner. The same corner it's always in.
 Lifting it from its hiding place and give it over to his waiting hand. They're pink with cold and anger,his hands.

But it's better than white.
 If they were white his fists would clenched and he would be furious.

Either way it doesn't matter he can't stay mad for too long. He puts the case into his jean jacket, and his slippers scuff against the pathway as he gets up to leave.

Clock ticks silently in my head 8 times. The time it takes for him to get through our door and close himself in behind it. Unsheathing  a white filtered cigarette from my skirt pocket, simultaneously pouring out the black tea all over the walk. It clatters down and I take a deep breathe, inhaling my already lit cigarette.

Watch the ladybug for a while.  Watch its tiny body cascade over a single leaf. Tittering along in a dull hurry.

She knows she has plenty of time.

The day is young and the sky is calm.

 Inhale again and throw the remainder of that cigarette into the its sad grave, where many before it have gone to die, their flame extinguished.

My bare feet touch the ground, grasp the brick for support, holding my familiar cup in hand.

 Turning on my heels slow and shallow,  walk to the front door. Touch the wood we installed last Christmas and turn the frigid brass knob.

 (I wanted gold)

 Remember that the day is still quite young.