still damp
“It´s raining outside; I can smoke a cigarette,” she told herself, staring at the Parliament abandoned on the table. It was the same style of irrational thinking that had her convinced she didn´t miss him, but this time she caught herself.
No- rain does not imply cigarettes. Sure it was rare for Buenos Aires in January, but there were so many other ways to celebrate the weather. She picked herself up and passed the cigarette on the way to the window. Somehow the streets looked more filthy. With every drop of water a bit of earth expanded and dirty streams wandered the city instead of people.
Was he really still thinking about her? Of course he must have gotten over it; just three weeks, not nearly enough for a love affair. She´d gotten over it anyhow. She´d quit smoking too.
This is similar in style to the short stories I’m reading by Anne Enright, but it’s uniquely you. Beautiful.