ashes

There she was, San Mig in one hand and under Sanchoisms.

In this state she began to wait for the warming of her hands, still holding a cigarette, scattering ashes on the floor. There is no stopping the prolonged coldness, but she just sits there, puffing, dragging and wishing that she were somebody else.

She runs her fingers through her hair, then smoothens the creases on her skirt, probing every fold of cloth or skin. In this state she begins to wait for the cigarette smoke to vanish.

Closing in on her infinite hands. Her fingers are the most delicate, whose paleness contrasts to that of the redness of her nail polish. Dashes of crimson floods her cuticles, like sunrise’s murder. In the early afternoon, her fingers are shaky, but still ultimately diligent at tapping excess ash. And excess coldness.

I would say her fingers are solemnly waiting for the return of warmth. Her fingers, her fingers are so godlike.

And in this state, he found himself stalking her hands, almost probing into every fold of her skin and stealing the smell of smoke permeating on her thumb and pointer. Infinitely, her fingers will shake, and tap away the last few remnants of his ashen memory.