Proper Use and Care (a drabble)

She sits in a bluegray Virginia Slim cloud.

Through the haze, I can see eyes that were once sharp, but had become sharpened.

Past the smell of old smoke and new, her perfume speaks of some promises kept, but mostly of ones broken. Whispers of what might be and what could have been weave themselves into an olfactory babble wafting on a Davidoff wind.

Cool Water and dried hopes.

Standing, she slices me with her gaze. I imagine her imagining me bleeding on the sweaty sheets.

"We should do this more often," she lies.

"We will," I lie right back.