Cigarette Closure
2 ' o clock Drabbles❝003 -- Cigarette Closure.❞
Satiating your sponge with lemon scented detergent, you begin to scour the windows of your car, scrubbing at the cigarette ashes with a—look, what do you know—cancer stick situated ably between your lips.
The July morning sorta’ had that sticky, summer, Let’s Lay In Front Of The AC kind of feel going for it; not that you were going to complain or anything. Okay, maybe that wasn’t completely true. Or true at all.
Alright‚ it was a lie.
You toss the nearly-consumed cigarette into the water pail before wringing out the sponge over your face, enjoying the sensation of something other than St. Helens washing over your body. The citrus aroma hits you straight on, entangling itself with the fragrance of your recently imported Something Something—It’s French. The mixture doesn’t really scream pleasant but, who cared, it wasn’t like you were expecting company in the first place—being the lonely house hermit you were.
The sound of echoed footsteps disrupts your depressing thoughts. You turn, seeing a larger hooded man jogging down the road in front of your house. Large as in height you would probably say; the body proportions were difficult to determine with all his layers.
You size him up a little longer, squinting your eyes in thought. He might’ve been handsome, but it was too early to tell. He was attractively tall and even with track pants on, you could make out the undeniable length in his legs. Though, it was strange; you live out in the country side and your two closest neighbors were a corn field and a stone-ribbed mountain.
Chucking, you wear a scoff and accesorize it with a hair ruffle. It was practically like witnessing some nasty snow bizzard in Anywhere, California.
Alongside your extended index, middle, and ring fingers, you catapult a pinky. Upon doing so, you officially marked Hood Man’s fourth lap.
Or, at least, the forth time he’s passed your house gate.
Beforehand, you actually planned on heading back in after his third but the thought of catching another glimpse of the Jogger’s glistening man sweat kept you lingering. So, there you were, Predator Eyes and all on the prawl for Holy Flesh.
Though, you highly doubt it is.
After lap nine and Three-Fouths Too Much For Someone Too Jog In Their Lifetime, Hood Man decides to approach you. Your eyes avert a tad, your fingers fidgeting with the split ends of your hair. Note to self: Trim due—soon.
Hood Man: Hey there.
You: I’m fine, you?
Hood Man: What?
You lower your head with a sneer. What the was that, you muse, squeezing your eyes tight while muttering a few colorful words under your breath. Using perephrials, you look up a bit, catching a bit of Hood Man’s rough stubbles. Higher were thin, dead y lips. You were afraid to continue.
“Running, yes? Seems tiring. Is it tiring?”
He smiles at you, his eyes easing in a gentle manner. His body collapses to the ground, his knees hugged against his wide chest and face very, very close to yours. “Quite. It pays off though.”
You: “I can tell.”
Hood Man: “Hm?”
You: “I mean, I can tell you—why don’t come in for a beverage?”
Hood Man: “I’d like that.”
Swirving around your counter, you place a glass of iced water on an overdone laced coaster. You take a glimpse over your shoulder, watching the man you invited in situate himself humbly on your leather couch.
The room lays dimly lit, looking rather expensive despie where the home was located. You kick your shoes off and prop them on the glass table in front of you, pulling out a fresh pack of Camel from your shirt pocket. The stranger frowns upon your actions, but you ignore and continue to speak, “Dislike?”
He nods, squeezing his thumb and index finger together as if he were pincing an invisible fat roll just before removing his sweatshirt and shades. You subconsciously size him up again, nonchalantly letting your eyes wander as they please. You see that he notices, scoffing silently.
He enjoyed the attention.
This makes your heart races a little. More than a little. A lot. It’s probably the nicotine. Yes, that’s it. You shake your head at the denial, sneering at that small smile plastered on his thin yet supple lips. Confident, aren’t we?
But you both know that he does have a reason to be.
You place the stick in your mouth before reaching forward to grab the Zippo off the table—only to grasp air. You look up at the source of the problem in front of you, pursing your lips in irritants. “Give it.” You demand an out stretched hand.
“Do you do this with all the men you invite over? Lure them in with those super y word fumbles and then destroy our lungs with a wee little cancer stick?” He retaliates, enunciating each syllable in an oh so taunting manner.
“My sincere apologise, your Magesty. Would you like a straw with your drink so you can it up?” You thwart back in the same tone, stretching forward to—yet again—grab a whole lot of nothing. At this point the guy’s just laughing at your futile attempts as you curse at his long, muscular arms at your short, lanky ones. He leaves his arm out a little longer this time with a smile and you interpret this as chance, jumping forward with all you might to grab it.
You shake a little, tilting to your left in loss of balance. He notices your stumble, grabbing your wrist and pulling your body successfully into his chest. “How cute, you actually thought you could take it from me! ” He sings in a cutsy–voice, poking your cheeks and cooing you as if you were a small infant.
“You—! ”
“Taecyeon—if you would be so kind.”
“Taecyeon,” You start, gritting his name between your teeth, “My lighter, please.”
He smiles. “Yeah, I don’t think so.”
You sneer with impatience. You jolt a little, a large rough hand making its way up inside your shirt to your lower back. You look up, that same assy smile eyeing you with mock. This guy.
You: “For the last time if I don’t have something in my mouth, I’ll—”
Taecyeon: “Should I give you something then?”
You: “Ewe.”
Taecyeon: “I meant gum—what were you thinking?”
You: “S-Shut up!”
Taecyeon: “I think I like your ideas better.”
You: “…”
Taecyeon: “So, that’s a yes for round two?”
You sigh. He kisses. You laugh silently to yourself; look’s like it was never the nicoine afterall.
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