6

"Why don't you turn off that light," she said.
"Because I don't want to turn if off." And I looked at her. And I got back that stare. That blank stare that she always gave to me. One of those blank stares that not even an animal could give you. A look of utter hatred pointed in my direction that took every one of my atoms and made them want to cry. How could someone be so fucking mean? And the reason she couldn't do a thing was because of her own enslavement. She couldn't get out of that chair. She had decided to quit walking years before, even though nothing was wrong with her legs. Some people would beg for legs in which to walk with, but for her, she would rather not use them.
And that cigarette. She somehow was so elegant with that cancerette. The way she held it in her hand, wrist cocked forward, smoke spilling into the air with its carressing curves like the most beautiful of curly hair. That smoke destined to come across the room, past my left arm and my cheek, to get sucked into my lungs and filtered back out. There was always a cigarette. And sometimes it would have the whole length of it ashes, only to somehow destroy the laws of physic's gravity, then slowly it would go down into the tray. Ashes and ashes, butts to butts. I always liked the way she held that cigarette. It may be the only thing I really liked about her.