The Smell of Cigar Smoke

He pulled again on his cigar and waved away the smoke that drifted up towards his face. The night was still and the heat heavy, so that the sound of birds roosting almost a mile away travelled to him across the veranda and through the open French doors. The heat made his palms sticky and he felt beads of sweat slide in a furtive line down his spine.
She rose from the chaise longue, and stretched, lifting the chiffon of her blouse slightly above her waist. She announced in a voice languid with heat that she would bathe and dress for dinner. He nodded and replied that he would let the wine breathe. They had entered into the habit of eating late, their appetites awakening only when the Tulsa night began to cool.
He watched the curve of her back as she ascended the stairs, his eyes lingering on her movements. She took her time, knew that he would be watching. Her hips swayed beneath her skirt.
He sat then, cross legged in his armchair for some moments, gazing out into the garden as the dusk gathered and the crickets began to chirp. He smoothed his hands against his trousers, stood up decisively and poured claret into a decanter. Shaking only slightly, he took the vial from his pocket, unscrewed it and tapped the powder out to mix with the liquid, swirling it briefly and watching it fizz.
He had poured himself whiskey and was back sitting in his armchair as she descended the stairs smiling to greet him.