It has been a while since she has found herself surrounded by the hazy smoke. She slowly brings it to her lips and inhales deeply. She feels the warmth of the smoke within her moist mouth and slowly exhales, making the steady trail of smoke dance towards the low, off-white ceiling. She has lost track of time as she sits on the leather couch; it sticks to her bare legs as she moves around, readjusting the position of her legs. It creaks loudly but she doesn’t notice the sound. Instead, she is enchanted by the low rumbling voice of Louis Armstrong laced with the sultry voice of Ella. She closes her eyes and gently sways her body as she quietly sings with them:
Under a blanket of blue,
Let me be thrilled by all your charms.
Darling, I know my heart will dance
Within your arms.
Opening her eyes, the room suddenly seems so much smaller. She can hear the sound of her own breathing echo within the room. The walls glow and the room feels too warm. She sinks lower into the couch and allows herself to be carried away. She curls up in the corner of the couch into the fetus position and begins to weep. She lets out small, quiet sobs; her breaths are rapid and short, following a stream of tears down her face. Still in her hand, she takes one last drag before tossing into the cigarette tray and rolls onto her back. Staring at the ceiling, she recalls their argument last night. She only remembers the numerous times they told each other to fuck off; the yelling and the anger that filled the room was insurmountable.
She gets up and quickly runs into the kitchen, the tile floor sending chills up her spine. She scrambles for a wine glass and opens up a bottle of Shiraz, pouring right up to the rim. She takes a big sip and slowly walks back to the living room. She walks over to an empty wall and slides her back down towards the floor; sitting in the corner, she watches the front door. The floor is cold and sends goose bumps along her legs. Louis and Ella have stopped singing; the only sound playing is from the humming of the fan. She looks down at her crooked knees and begins to count the number of small scars on them. She sighs and walks over to grab her small purse on the floor beside the couch. She sits cross-legged on the floor and pulls out a small tin box. She carefully opens it and takes a deep breath in. She measures the precise amount and carefully rolls another. Taking it to her mouth, she gently licks the end and seals it.
She fumbles her box of matches and quickly lights it. Taking her glass in hand, she takes another large sip before bringing her masterpiece to her lips.