Indoor Patio

Disengaged – Grouper

A boy sits in the corner.
The edge of a couch, next to the wall.
He sets his pint down on the table in front of him, foam hugging the thick glass lip. A thin line flows down the outside, forming a minuscule puddle on the table. He doesn’t seem to notice.
With his left hand, slowly reaches for a silver package resting on the table. Gold lettering, reflective coating.
A subtle kind of flashy.

He folds back the lid, and crinkles the foil coated paper underneath. He flicks the bottom of the pack, trying to shoot a single cigarette up into his waiting fingers, like in old movies. Desperately wanting to recapture that romance, one of a time long since past.
Once, twice, he snaps his fingers, shakes his head, and redoubles his focus.
A third try.
A fourth.

He mutters under his breath, but I can’t make out what he says.

Silently admitting defeat, he picks at the package with his fingers. It takes him a moment, but he pulls the slender white cylinder from its cardboard confines.
It must be a fresh pack.

Raising the cigarette to his lips, he fumbles in his pockets for a lighter, matches, anything.
His hands come away empty.

Anyone have a light?
Here.

He holds the flame up, missing the tip of the smoke by a centimeter. He moves the two closer together, adjusting his lips around the filter. The light is a little too close to his face, he burns the underside of the cigarette before the tip catches, a dark burn mark staining white paper.

First drag: the thin red line of burning coal races around the edge, forming a circle, before moving inward.

Second drag: the edges continue to burn faster, hotter. The coal grows to a spike, as the center of the tobacco attempts to keep up with its paper shield.

His cheeks puff out, as he pulls the smoke into his mouth. He doesn’t inhale. He holds the cigarette in his fingers, rolling it back and forth. First and second. The knuckle of his middle finger twitches slowly. Ash falls from the tip. He purses his lips, his eyes flow the line of his nose, and he begins to breath out. A thin jet of smoke exits his lips, an opening so small it looks as though he is about to whistle.

The smoke expands from a jet into a small cloud about a foot in front of him. It slowly loses shape, and drifts off into nothingness.

He coughs, but quietly.