Two cigarettes like Twix. Two for him. The softly breathing form beside him made discontented noises in its sleep as he smoked the first. Possibly telling him to put it out. Possibly telling someone at work that they were out of copy paper. The picture on the bedside table showed a young, fit man in a suit shaking hands with someone who was probably pretty high up in the economic food chain. He was too ugly to be photographed otherwise, much less to be displayed in such a prominent position. Position. This brought a smile to the smoker’s lips. If the guy in the photograph could imagine, he probably wouldn’t be shaking the young fellow’s hand. Or perhaps he’d do more than shake it? One could only guess what big-time suits liked in their spare time when the lights were turned low.
A string of smoke curled into the ceiling fan, and he pushed the glowing butt into the false smile of the elder figure. An ashy improvement.
There was no need to dawdle, despite his aching feet. No need to face the morning light, or the sobered face of his companion. Feet on the floor, legs to the door. The second cigarette glowing afresh like the early night sky.
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