Her Story Begins
Like every time she does when life throws at her one of its little gems, she sucks at a cigarette. This dark corner, this noir aroma, this slow-burning dusk inside the café greeting the coffee-flavoured nightfall outside, this greyish-blue trail of the departing train in the track across the lazy street, rises in her chest like a lump of tangy lust. She takes it all in with a deep inhale.
Someone was saying something. Weird, these guys – with their egos, with their outwardness. Their stories, their always-saying-something. She has nothing much to say. People just talk too much, in this world. Whatever one can say is either anyway known already or will be known tomorrow. If there is anything else that the world will not know unless she tells, is her own – too personal to tell the world. At any rate, no one cares about her own things. Talking annoys her, especially at these moments.
She mumbles a god-knows-what and keeps herself immersed in the moment. Tries to hold on to it. Takes another desperate drag, as if she can store the moment inside her and carry it along. But someone else says something else. Then someone else.
How she craves for a drop of life that is her own!