Still Damp
Published in the Decameron Literary Journal
“It´s raining outside- I can smoke a cigarette,” she told herself, staring at the Parliament on the table. It was the same sort of irrational thinking that had her convinced she didn´t miss him. This time she caught herself.
No. Rain does not imply cigarettes. Sure, rain was rare for Buenos Aires in January, but there were so many other ways to celebrate the weather. She freed herself from the armchair’s embrace 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 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.