She breathes in a cigarette hollowing her cheeks allowing the thick smoke to fill and coat her lungs before escaping out into the winter air. The red-hot top of the cigarette burns bright as she sucks in, illumination her pale face and pink cheeks. She does this so effortlessly like shes practiced her perfect form a million times over. I wonder about the damage shes done to herself, how soon she won't be able to breathe normally again, how coated her lungs are with the toxic tar she allows her body to take in with each cigarette. her hair feathers around her face as the wind picks up and blows it around. The dark brown of her hair accentuates the pale green of her eyes; light and mischievous. They seem to hold secrets that she knows she can use against you. She turns to me, eyes dancing with mischief.
“You know, these are bad for you,” she holds up her cigarette, “you shouldn’t be smoking them.” I roll my eyes and take a long, exaggerated drag from my cigarette.
“You’re one to talk. What are you at, two packs a day?” I say and she waves her hand dismission my comment.
“It’s okay for me,” she says, her face suddenly solemn, “ I don’t care whether I live or die. I’ve got nothing for me here and nothing for me there...” she looks up to the sky, then her eyes flicker to the ground, “... or there. I’m in limbo,” She grins at the idea. “I’m immortal. Nothing can hurt me. I will live forever,” satisfied with her answer she leans back on the bench puts the filter of the cigarette to her lips and takes a long drag, “Yes, I’m gonna live forever,” she mumbles to herself. We sit in silence for a moment, our breath dances in the air before mingling together and evaporating into the night.
“But,” I start as I flick the ashes from the end of my cigarette, “everyone dies eventually. It isn’t fair for you to live forever,” she looks up at me and smiles sweetly, angel-like.
“No one dies,” she turns her body to face me and props her leg up on the bench to get more comfortable, “Close your eyes and think of someone who ‘died’,” I close my eyes. I think of Jen. “Tell me who you’re thinking of,” I answer, “Jen”. “Can you see her?” I nod, “Yes”. I can see her kind face with soft features. Her smiling eyes. Her long hair tied up in a bun. I see her reading, her favorite hobby. She looks up at me and smiles. “Can you smell her?” Apple and cinnamon with a hint of vanilla from her shampoo fills my nose, “Can you feel her?” I run my hand along her face. It’s smooth and warm; I was afraid it would feel decomposed and cold. Stone. A statue, “Shes there, is she not?”

“She’s there,” I whisper, tears threatening to spill down my cheeks.
“See, even when someone is dead physically, they never die mentally. They never leave your mind. And until everyone who ever knew the memory of you is no longer able to think for whatever reason, you are still living and breathing and being. Always,” She leans back against the bench and finishes her cigarette, the last of the smoke evaporating into the air.