A short, descriptive piece about a cigarette.
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, slightly battered white cigarette packet. He opened it and gently drew a long, white cigarette, the paper interrupted only once, with a thin gold ring to mark the filter. A simple and beautiful stick, he knew, of death.
To him, this simplicity spoke a certain eloquence and class to the world.
Replacing the packet back into his coat pocket, he placed the cigarette resting between his lips loosely, leaving his hands free to frisk himself for his small red lighter. He found it in his back pocket, and sparked it, lighting the cigarette, and protecting it with one hand, he smiled as curious wisps of smoke lazily began to curl through the light summer air.
He placed the lighter back into his pocket, and took a long drag, listening in the perfect silence to the minuscule, gentle sound of the paper and tobacco burning, watching the tip glow and slowly pull back, revealing ash.
He pulled it from between his lips and exhaled, watching the cloud of smoke dissipate into the air.
He took another drag, this time longer and inhaling in such a way that the smoke stayed in his mouth, and was not drawn into his lungs.
He moved it away from his mouth, placing it between his first few fingers casually.
Again, he exhaled, pleased with the thicker, curlier smoke that twisted and seemed to dance away from him.
He smiled, flicked the cigarette so the ash fell to the floor, breaking apart in the air.
He was content.