From the corner of my eye, I could see her cerulean blue scarf, her flowing red hair, and her pale, paper white skin. I strained my neck, hoping to catch a ray of her smile, a flick of her lithe wrist; but as soon as I turned towards her, she was gone, as quickly as a Coy fish darts under a lily pad. I imagined her mingling within the throng of people, the smell of smoke drifting lazily off of her body as she moved from person to person. Meanwhile, I stood off to the side in my lonesome. As my eyes darted towards the seemingly slowed down clock, I saw a flash of red hair pass before me, and smelt a wave of smoke wash over my innocently-soapy smelling clothes. At once enticed, I walked through the crowd of people as if in a dream, pushing apart dancing couples, snaking through circles of friends; looking for this sensation of a human being.
When I returned home from the dance that night, I found my mother in the kitchen lathering the dishes. Immediately, I pushed up my sleeves and offered to help. In each bubble of soap, I could see the girl’s red hair, swaying back and forth, back and forth, across her slender back. When I tucked my mother in that night, and began to steep her favorite cup of tea, I could see the girl’s cigarette smoke, slowly drifting up in the steam from the tea.
The next day after school, I bashfully glanced across the parking lot to the wooded area where the smokers stood. Drawing in my breath, I saw the girl’s long, brilliantly orange colored hair swish across her shoulders, as she stood in a cloud of gray smoke. At that moment, I was overcome with such desire that before I knew what I was doing, I could feel my feet march towards the drawer in my mother’s room where she stashed a secret box of cigarettes. Ignoring the pile of dishes in the sink and the grimy floor, which I would have normally cleaned up as soon as I set eyes upon, I swiftly opened my mother’s creaky drawer, and grasped the single pack of Marlboro Light cigarettes. Then, my heart pounding in my ears, my blood rushing in my veins, I darted outside, stuffing the pack down my shirt. The cold, grey, melancholy, air of late January wrapped itself around me like a blanket.

Soon, I came upon a small, wooded section in my neighborhood, that I deemed private enough for my purpose. With the image of the girl swirling in my mind, I yanked a chalky white cigarette out of its pack. Turning it in my hand, I examined its careful wrapping, feeling the smooth surface of the paper. Grabbing the lighter I had hidden in my pocket, I struck its serrated edge, making a resilient orange flame spring up towards my body. Hands now shaking, I placed the tip of the smooth cigarette into my dry, slightly parted lips, and struck the lighter. At first the cigarette remained unlit, and my mind began to cloud with worries. But then, in a flash, the cigarette was lit, burning a light orange and releasing its murky scent. I stared at the cigarette and the cigarette stared back at me; slowly taking the form of the girl and beckoning me, whispering slowly into my mind. Taking a slow drag, I could feel a bullet pierce through my lungs, as I desperately held in what I knew what be racking coughs.


Finally, the pain faded, and the image of the girl began to appear in the cigarette smoke again. I breathed in another drag, and this time, it was only an arrow that pierced my lungs. Suddenly, I heard my mother calling me, from the corner of the street. Throwing the cigarette onto the ground, I sprinted home, hoping that the running would mask my scent. When I got to my driveway, my mother looked at me, and obviously displeased, she asked where I had been. A quick flicker of the girl flashed through my mind, and I replied to my mother in a snappish, rude manner, something I had never done before. The look on her face was none other than utter shock. Secretly, I was shocked with myself too, but just the thought of me becoming like the girl was enough for me to brush the shock aside.
Days past. Weeks past. Months past. I had grown accustomed to smoking, and the only pain I felt in my lungs now was that of comparison to a small needle. I longed to know the girl, to befriend her, to even become her. At night I would see her hair in my dreams. In the daytime, I could see her silhouette in the shadows that the sun cast outside of my classroom windows. As I stared outside looking for shadows, I sometimes thought of my mother. I wished I could go back to the times where we were on talking terms; for now, the house was silent as silent and as cold as a bleak winter sky. The daily chores that had to be done remained untouched by both of us, and the house slipped into a rancid stink of dirty dishes and piles of dank, dirty clothing. My grades, which had once been straight A’s, quickly changed into straight C’s. But I could see none of this. All I could see was the girl’s hypnotic frame.
Bursting out into the crisp air at the end of a long day, I reached into my pocket for the pack of cigarettes I always kept at hand. Quickly lighting one and walking down the street, out of the corner of my eye, I saw a girl with a mangled, gray, sad face, slowly pass by me on the opposite side of the road. Feeling sorry for her, I turned my head around, and watched her walk past me. A full head of orange hair swished behind her, as she walked away, shrouded in a cloud of smoke.