The soft curls of smoke in the half-light.
The elegance of a cylinder firmly grasped between long fingers with painted nails.
The ring of lipstick on the filter, the ash delicately poised on the tip of the cherry.
Only bad girls smoke. Bad girls grow up to be powerful women. Women that don’t care for the rules, for your opinion or for your ego.
At My mercy, you are transfixed by the cherry glowing incandescent as I inhale, My careless gesticulations bringing it impossibly close to your shivering chest. The heat so pin-prick precise and so close to your nipple that you dread to draw breath in case you inadvertently singe yourself. I breathe out, a plume of smoke shrouds your face and you breathe in. Yelp!