'Woman Smoking A Cigarette'

Joni walks past the log where they used to sit before he left- on that
wretched plane; with no good-byes; too soon. She tugs on her loose,
black shirt as though willing it to carry her away from there; to give
her the strength to leave. Her foot pauses; hesitates as she steps
forward, moving farther from the island of rotting wood and off to her
next class.

In the classroom, the professor discusses mathematics on the black
board,gesturing to meaningless figures that supposedly define the
universe-
Tick, tock, Tick, tock... goes the clock.
All she hears are Luke's words as she sat with him for (what she
hadn't then known would be) the last time.

He was wearing a gray shirt that afternoon- the color of smoke. His
back was pressed up against the cold, cement wall littered with
grafitti. A cigarette dangled from in between his index and middle
finger, sending smoke up into the atmosphere; the sky that had just
finished crying.

"Want one?" he asked her, his tone almost teasing; taunting.

"No," she said pointedly, taking his cigarette and stabbing it into
the leg of his faded denim jeans. The cigarette singed the fabric,
letting out a faint, burning smell.

"Fuck," he said, brushing the bits of ash off his pants and onto
Joni's red skirt.

"Hey!" she exclaimed, moving away from him.

He laughed. "You started it."

"Smoking will kill you, you know."

He rolled his eyes and reached into his pocket for another stick. His
hands shook from the Nicotine.

"Eventually," he said,lighting the cigarette, "everything we do will
kill us."


Tick, tock, Tick, tock...class finishes. The sound of the door opening
and closing interrupts her thoughts.

The nameless professor gives out an assignment that she forgets to
list down. Joni packs her things up slowly before walking out of the
cold room.

She passes the log on her way home. This time the hesitation is
stronger- there is nowhere else she has to be. The LRT station seems
too far; the ride home unbearable.

Her eyes fall on the small Sari-Sari store across the log. When
her foot lands, it leads her there.

"Isang Frost," she says to the old lady with ugly teeth who hands her
the stick and gestures to a lighter on a string.

She hands 4 pesos over in return.

Stick between her lips, she lights the cigarette and feels the smoke
at the back of her throat-she coughs just a little. As she exhales,
the warmth is replaced by a cool, menthol sensation- in her nose; in
her mouth.

She walks to the log and sits on the moist, rotting wood, puffing.

When she finishes, she stubs the butt on the left leg of her jeans.
The fabric burns, and she gladly inhales the scent it eminates. It
hurts, but only a little; not too bad.

She stands up and takes a deep breath, getting ready to walk away.
She slings her bag over her shoulder and takes a step forward.
Her fingers quiver as she holds her books to her chest. Taking stride
after stride, she smiles and watches them shake.