Cigarette Butts

 

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Smoking, to her father, came as naturally as breathing. He smoked and breathed and breathed and smoked. And each time he was away, she'd sneak into the ashtray and pick the filter butts. She had a liking for the smell of cigarettes and loved it more when her fingers smelled of them.

But, this story isn't about her father, his smoking, or her sniffing - actually, it's about cigarettes and him. She doesn't smoke, was never tempted to. He's been smoking for the last three months now, has been trying to kick the butt.

They spend their cigarette breaks together, in the company of one other office colleagues. He shares his cigarette with the colleague who wears a nude gloss. And each time, as their fingers kiss while handing the cigarette to each other, she feels the ash of jealousy being smeared on her insides.

She wonders what his cigarette tastes like - him, the colleague, the women he makes love to, rum, leftover tea, half-burnt lips - all this while she catches herself staring at him a while longer than her liking. But, she knows he wouldn't notice - just the way he doesn't notice a tap on his head and a pat on his shoulder, a smile too wide and a hug too casual, the brush of her hair on the nape of his neck and a text that makes no sense and makes him go what the heck. He wouldn't notice.

He doesn't notice - intentionally or not, she doesn't know, and she doesn't know what burns her more - his indifference or her helplessness, or that the colleague has the audacity to put her half-burnt lips to him.

And as she stares down at his lips a little more, he offers her his cigarette. She declines. She's never been tempted to pick the butt.

Instead, she stayed there until everybody’s gone. She picked the almost over still burning stick and shoved into her palm and unlighted it completely.

He doesn't notice, and she doesn't know what burns her insides more - the cigarettes or him.

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