Her cigarette was just a tool, something to occupy her lips and keep her focused on the moment. Sometimes I wondered if she even liked smoking, or if she just needed something to keep herself occupied with. Without her Marlboro, what would she do with her hands? What would she do with her teeth and tongue during those long pauses? She’d have to ramble on, and use up all the oxygen in the room, keep the air full of her philosophy—she wasn’t a wasteful girl, you see. No, she had to make sure that everything had a point and nothing was without purpose.
So, to keep herself from deadened pauses, she’d be poignant with a cigarette; cigarettes were a good way of lengthening commas and semicolons. That thin stream of smoke from her lips, well that was the ellipsis. When she inhaled it was the parenthesis, and when she exhaled, well that was the em-dash.
She was beautiful, and always accented by a cigarette.
