Emotional Atyachaar

She picks up the cigarette in her hand. Rolls it between her fingers. Back and forth...slowly...very slowly, as if trying to derive at the exact measure of its diameter. Her mind, still clouded with indecisiveness, she observes the little white stick in great detail. The symbol, the text, the fine lines running across the brown filter. The rolling makes the tobacco pop up on the surface. The coarse curled insides look like wood shavings to her. I musn't be doing this, she says to herself. But her hands are not ready to let it go. She draws it closer to her nose. The stick running just beneath her nostils in a smooth fashion - the kinds she'd seen in movies umpteen number of times. The smell is familiar - nothing more than a faint memory though. But she knows it well, it doesnt take long for the faint to become clearer. She puts the cigarette in her mouth and lights a match. The light touches the tip; she takes a drag and sees the edges glow in a fiery orange.

She inhales, only to let the fumes swirl in her mouth for a couple of seconds. Then, slowly she lets it out. The white smoke makes its way up but the smell of the nicotine teases her palate. She takes another drag and then another - inhaling a bit of smoke each time. Finally, the cylindrical stick reaches its safety end. The last drag is long, as if trying to make the end the most rewarding.

The euphoria ends. She looks at the stub, the intoxicating smell still surrounding her. She sighs in disbelief.

Things she does to feel close to him.