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Cigarette

He felt her stir while he stayed in that hazy aftermath of her destruction.

And he leaned in close and whispered something in her ear. He didnt care that it was a perverted something.

He thought he saw her smile and turn away.

Maybe. Maybe not.

There was a soft humming of her favourite song, and he played the beat bleakly in his head for a while.

She stirred again, and he saw her shadows shift places.

He was afraid she would leave.

He whispered again, this time he said to her, "Stay."

He thought he saw her smile and turn away.

Maybe. Maybe not.

She reached out for a cigarette, and he loved it.

He loved watching her play with the matches in her long fingers.

As she took her time with the smoke, it all seemed so dirty to him.

He loved it.

As it gently touched her lips, the same he had been caressing only moments ago, he could tell.

He could tell, all those lips cared for now, was that cigarette. And it stung.

But he loved it.

Every single time. A cigarette after sex.

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