Smoke

Smoke

by Ragan Sutterfield

He was out again. I could see him, hunched against the cold, smoking.
I watched for a while out the window. He had his jacket collar turned
up and he leaned against the metal railing taking long draws on his
cigarette. The man, he was somewhere in his mid twenties, had moved in
across the alley about three months ago. Every night around eight he
would come out and smoke a cigarette. He wasn't a real smoker it
seemed. Not the kind that has to get a nicotine fix every hour. But he
was limited and regular-every night smoking a cigarette or two and then
going inside. I'd never seen any one else in the place, but I couldn't
really say for sure if he was alone.

Mary was on the couch reading some translated Russian novel and sipping
Darjeeling tea. I moved away from the window and sat on couch next to
her.

He's out there again, he's out there every night, I said.

Really, she said, not paying attention.

I picked up a magazine from the table and began flipping through it. It
was a special issue about music and literature. I read the first few
paragraphs of a piece about the top forty charts by some British writer
who had had a couple of novels turned into movies. It seemed like an
okay piece, but I didn't really feel like reading. I got up to make a
cup of tea.

The water was still hot from when Mary had heated it and she had left
the box of tea on the counter. I picked through it and found a
lemon-honey blend that I hadn't tried. I poured the water and went back
into the living room. As I passed the window I could still see the man
out there smoking.
I sat next to Mary and sipped my tea. I stared at the steam rising from
my cup-twisting slightly.

Mary set her book down after a while and she leaned against me, lightly
kissing my neck.

I love you, she said.

I love you, I said, setting my cup on the table and putting my arms
around her.

We stayed there like that for a while-holding each other and kissing.
Mary moved her hand along my leg and then yawned big.

I'm ready to go to bed, she said.

Okay.

I sat up and finished my tea. Mary got up and grabbed my hands to pull
me from the couch. I rose and picked up the two cups and took them to
the sink. As I came back in the living room I saw the man out there
still smoking. I stared for a moment, watching his smoke rise up and
blow away in the winter wind. Mary came up behind me and put her arms
around my waist.

Is he still out there, she asked leaning around me.

Yeah, I said.

I turned to go and Mary held me for a moment and kissed me. We turned
the lights off and she held me again. I could feel her breath against
my face.

We made love that night. And afterward I lay in bed with Mary resting
her head on my chest. She moved her hand across my stomach, slowly,
gently. I could hear the wind outside pouring through the alley. A
front is moving in, I thought. We lay like that, Mary holding me and me
listening to the wind outside. I'm going to sleep, I said and leaned
over and blew out the candle beside our bed. Mary turned over on her
side away from me, and moved her back against my side. It was warm and
I was glad for it. In the dark I could see the smoke from the candle
faintly in the streetlight. It twisted up and spread out. I thought of
the man outside. I lay watching the smoke disappear across the
ceiling.