I wrote this last year after perusing tumblr. I saw a sign or note or something that read Last Cigarette Of The Night and an image of a woman sitting at her window smoking came to me. Then a story filled in after and I wrote it in probably 20 minutes. It’s one of my favorite things I’ve ever come up with.
It was late. The kind of late where you didn’t know what time it was but the silence gave you an idea. Sometime between 3 and 5 am, the awkward times of night before its really considered morning and you wonder what made you stay up to begin with. She knew what kept her up though.
She had ruins of cigarettes falling on top of each other next to her. The open window threw a few ashes back her way every few minutes. Her back was sore and she couldn’t get comfortable no matter how hard she tried. There was a knot off the middle of her spine that no amount of stretching was going to cure. She needed to go to bed, but she just lit her last cigarette of the night.
She looked at the bookshelf and sighed. Only half were read and the other half mocked her. The knot in her back laughed at the idea of her getting comfortable enough to read and decided to give her a kick to make her wince. The wince turned into a yawn and she shook her head. The cigarette isn’t done yet.
He left them, the pack. He put them on her dresser before she unbuttoned his shirt. He said they’d share one after but he didn’t stick around long enough. He fucked her though. There was always time for that.
Sometimes he’d read to her too. She knew it was just a ploy to be charming and he knew it worked. She would unfasten each button as he looked through the stacks of books lined on her shelf and by the time she got to the last one he would slip a book out and find a place on the chair by the window or lean against the headboard. She would quickly take her place on his lap or with her head on his shoulder laying on the bed together.
He had the most dramatic voice, it was as if he was reading for an audience of a hundred and it made her feel special that it was just for her. Every emotion he hit. Every turn made her heart pound a little harder. And always at some point he would look to her and her eyes would sparkle and he would kiss her lips and the book would close and her legs would open. They would fuck and they would cum. Then he would leave.
She held the cigarette close to her lips, much longer than she usually did. It smelled like him. It was her last cigarette of the night and she wasn’t going to let it go as quickly as she did him. It burned on along with the knot in her back as she sat in the chair he sat in hours before. Sitting in the emptiness between 3 and 5 am was better than falling asleep and waking up next to nobody.