Cigarette

     I want to put a cigarette out on your back.
     Okay. I continue to dig through my purse.
     Still not looking at him, I wait for the cigarette sting. In my low-cut dress my bent back is bare and naked, exposed to both the elements and the small circular nub of fire he holds between his smooth fingers. I wait, but the pain never comes.


     I turn to look up at him and arch an eyebrow. I thought you were going to put a cigarette out on my back.
     I’m afraid.
     You’re afraid? I’m the one who is going to be scarred.
     That’s why I’m afraid.


     I watch him finish off his cigarette. He flicks it haphazardly onto the ground, and I try not to be annoyed by his defacement of my apartment building.
     Now you’re done with your cigarette.
     I could light another one.
     I stand to walk back in to my apartment; a wave of vertigo passes through me. I would eat something but he likes me thin.


     Smoking gives you cancer, I offer as we sit in silence on the couch.
     Surprise surprise.
     I shrug. I’m disappointed he didn’t hurt me, and I’m worried about my disappointment. I thought I was just an emotional masochist.
     I want a cigarette.
     You don’t smoke.
     What, are you afraid I’ll put a cigarette out on you?
     I doubt I would feel it.
     I know you wouldn’t.


     We smoke in the courtyard in silence. I cough with my first drag and curse my lack of poise. My neighbors’ two kids play cards on their stoop. The older one wins a game and laughs in victory.
     I notice his cigarette is almost out.
     Okay, I say. I’m going to turn around and watch those kids. You put your cigarette out on my back, right under my left shoulder to the right of the mole.
     Are you sure?
     Yes.
     I turn away. I hear him take his last drag. I wait for the burn.