Second Hand Smoking

She takes another drag as he stares. She blows the cloud to the side, curving her lips as to kiss the smoke goodbye. She does it so perfectly nonchalant that it in itself is poetry in motion to him. A serious conflict for the walking truth commercial that is he. He still analyzes everything about how she does it though. From the way she holds it in her two fingers like its a natural part of her, to the way her lips caress it before draining the life and length of it shorter. Her eyes shimmer impeccably in the moonlight it reflects and he can almost feel the smoke fill her lungs like a summer breeze filling a bed sheet hung out to dry. He notices the see-saw transition of her breath and how it slowly shifts and reverses itself. She is about to exhale, and like a surfer paddling to take full advantage of a wave, he closes his eyes and switches complete focus to the only other sense not repulsed by what she is about to do. His ears almost visibly squirm and tingle in anticipation of her release. The sound is so sweet to him and only she can make it sound just right. His imagination kicks in and provides a visual of something he’d seen her do a million times before. Her lungs are almost empty now and he knows he has only a few more seconds to enjoy it. He savors it like a fine wine down to the last drop. He feels his own little high subside and enjoyed it more than she could have ever dreamed. He opens his eyes slowly and it only takes him a moment to get his bearings back and remember that he hates what she just did. Its a sweet and sad irony that he hates what she does but loves how she does it.