Night cig

Her eyes wandered aimlessly as she continued to finish what she had to: she was thinking about what to do next, and the task after that, and the one after that. It seemed like there were endless of chores, tedious monsters that were awaiting her behind the pages and pages of words and ink and blank spaces. She lit up a cigarette and inhaled.  The smoke dribbled down her throat like liquid, thick and choking.

And exhale.

A puff of smoke formed in the night’s chilly air, there was no one to smoke with or talk to. Only the silence of waves crashing at the nearby pier and the engines whirring from far down below. The coolness of the air was supposed to be refreshing after the hot, summer air that clouded her thoughts like fog on windows. It made her shiver in the dark room instead.

Her black nail polish were coming again at the edges, it takes time to repaint them again. She was too tired for that. There was so much nothing on her list of to-dos, many meaningless, endless tasks.

Inhale, hold it in, exhale.

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