Image is "Liquor Store" by Tony Skeor. For the Fictober Picture Prompt (@fictoberpictureprompts) series. (Shout out to @mythicalsymplegma.)
It was a filthy fucking habit.
It's what Len told himself every time, but it never stopped him. Lying awake, in a twin bed, in The City That Never Sleeps — it was fitting, because neither could he. This was the best time, he thought, to pour his pain onto the page, while the wound in his heart was still fresh. At best, he'd have the Great American Novel; at worst, hell, it was cheaper than therapy. But first, he needed a little something to keep him going.
Len stepped out of the liquor store, tearing away the cellophane. He tapped the pack of Marlboro Reds and shook one loose, putting it up to his chapped lips. He stuffed the pack in his coat pocket, exchanging it with his Zippo lighter. His practiced hands flipped the lighter open, lit the cigarette, and pocketed it again. Someday they might kill him, but he'd worry about that later. Right now, the warmth in his lungs on this bitter night made him feel a little more alive.
It's Jenny's fault I took up smoking, he thought, with an amused smile. Then he shook his head. No, no sense in blaming her for your dumbass decisions.
That's when she caught his eye -- or rather, when the sound of her heels clicking against the icy pavement caught his ear. She'd stepped out of the motel next door, ruffling through a compact crossbody bag. Len's eyes traveled up her sturdy legs, adorned in dark stockings. She wore a black miniskirt — a telling choice, in this weather — and a red halter barely visible under a puffy black coat. Her chestnut hair flowed out from a cute knit cap that seemed a little out of place with the rest of her outfit. Len could guess the top was revealing. She was dressed for attention, not the conditions.
The woman pulled out a cigarette case from her purse, and extracted a cigarette of her own. She continued to dig in the small purse, like she was trying to scrounge up bus fare in her couch cushions.
The woman nodded, and Len got a good look at her face for the first time. His first thought was she was too pretty. She had delicate features, framed perfectly by wavy locks of hair. Her face was slightly round and slightly flushed. Cherubic, almost. He guessed she was 7 or 8 years younger than he was, maybe in her early twenties. Her eyes were a deep, rich brown which almost seemed black except when they caught the flicker from the liquor store's gaudy flashing sign. Her lips, forming a slight smile, were painted a vibrant red that matched her top. When she held the cigarette to her lips, Len could see her nails were painted red as well, though the chips and streaks betrayed the work of an amateur. Too pretty. Too pretty for this place.
Len pulled out the Zippo and, with one hand, fluidly flipped it open and sparked the flint. Reflections of the blue flame danced in the woman's eyes as he lit her cigarette.
The woman took a drag and blew the smoke up towards the sky. "Thank you," she said. Her voice was scratchy and a little husky, as if she were getting over a cold. Len thought maybe she had an accent that he couldn't quite place.
"Don't mention it." Len smiled warmly. He figured she could use a smile. The people who stay in motels like this aren't here to take in the sights. Usually life has been giving them the business.
The woman smiled back. There was hesitation behind it, and she looked at Len like she were sizing him up. I guess I should've expected that, he thought as he took another drag. Probably doesn't get many guys being nice without expecting something else in return.
Len and the woman stood, an arm's length apart, and smoked their cigarettes in silence as the December snow fell around them. Len couldn't really explain it, but he felt compelled to say something. Small talk really wasn't his forte. But it had been weeks since he had talked to another human being that wasn't selling him something or providing him a service.
"I like your hat," he blurted out.
"Hmm?" The woman seemed surprised. Len thought maybe she didn't actually speak much English.
"Your hat," he pointed timidly, "I like it. It's cute."
To Len's surprise, the woman's face lit up as she smiled. She flashed her teeth, and her eyes seemed to sparkle. Len had always been skeptical of love at first sight, but in that moment, he was a believer. Her warmth could make a miniskirt in a snowstorm comfortable, or heat a man's cold, broken heart in ways no tobacco product ever could.
"Thank you. It was a gift," the woman said, her European accent more evident now. "From my sister. It's very precious to me."
"It suits you," Len said, returning the smile.
The woman finished her cigarette, dropping the butt and smashing it with her shoe. After an awkward delay, Len did the same, as he watched the woman walk back to the motel entrance.
At the door, the woman turned to face Len. "My name is Marlena."
Another smile, half flirtatious, half grateful. "Good night, Len." And with that, Marlena disappeared into the motel.
Len stuffed his hands into his pockets and began the trek back to his lonely apartment. The only thing he could think of was that he'd met a beautiful woman tonight, and in a brief moment of connection, he said something that had made her smile. He wanted to capture everything, while the details were still vivid, while he still remembered how her smile had made him feel.
But first, he needed a cigarette.
