post-coital cigarette.


image via Tumblr.

[before this: sick on Sunday]

Her pillowcase was wet and streaked with black mascara, she had been crying and hadn’t even realized it until she felt the cold wetness against her cheek.  He took her hand and kissed it.  “I love you,” he said, and she shook her head.

“Why did you do that?”

“I love you so much,” he repeated.  For the first time, she didn’t believe him.

He stood and pulled up his shorts; he fished his cigarettes out of his jacket and went to the living room to step out onto the balcony and smoke.  When he returned to the bedroom she called him to her.

“Give me your cigarettes,” she said.


“Just give them to me.”  He complied, handing over the pack of Marlboros.  She shook one out and put it between her lips.  “Light it for me, please,” she said.

“You don’t smoke–”

“Maybe I do now.”  She inhaled deeply.  “I’ve had a really difficult day and you didn’t make it any fucking better,” she said as she exhaled.

“You looked so perfect lying there,” he said.  “Your back, it had a perfect curve, like the dunes in the Sahara, down to your perfect ass.  You’re so beautiful, you know.”  He leaned over and kissed her shoulder.

She remained aloof.  “I don’t think you can understand the kind of pain I’m feeling right now.”  She had smoked her cigarette down to the filter and extinguished it in a glass of water on the bedside table.

He got out of bed and took a pill from her prescription bottle.  In the living room, he crushed it with the base of a glass then swept the powder into the tumbler and topped it with vodka, swirling it as he walked back to bed.  “Drink this,” he said.

She did as she was told, nearly gagging on the vodka, trying three times before she was able to drink it all.  The Vicodin left a white trail down the inside of the glass.

“You’ll sleep well tonight,” he said.  Part of her doubted she’d ever sleep again.