Cigarettes I Don't Smoke
The kiosk on the corner closes at two. After that, the street belongs to the dogs and the ones who can't sleep.
She came down the block with her hand pressed to her mouth. Split lip. Eyes that had stopped asking for help a long time ago, and looked surprised to find they still wanted it. She checked me, the empty street, the bike. Took two seconds to decide.
“¿Me acompañás?” she said.
Four blocks to the bus stop. She talked the whole way, fast, like she had to spend the words before they spent her. I walked beside her and said almost nothing. Somebody had to listen.
The bus came. She got on without looking back. No thank-you. I didn't need one. I needed her to get home.
I stayed on the corner until the kiosk opened at six and bought a pack. I don't smoke.
That was three years ago. Some nights, when sleep won't come, I still buy a pack. The owner stopped asking why. I don't smoke, but that was never the point.
— First published on iLands. A story like it, written for you: first page free, write to [email protected].