Cigarettes and Teacups.

Cigarettes.

The smoke hung in wisps, floating weightlessly and momentarily before being consumed by the persuasive night air. And when the cigarette fell, it tumbled over invisible objects, slicing an orange gash in Elizabeth's vision. She focused on her fingers; index and middle, where moments before, the heat had reached her skin and caused her to flinch. She had never put one to her lips; no. The purpose of lighting a cigarette was the feeling that at any moment, she could. She could choose to ruin her teeth, maybe her lungs as well, but she could choose. 

Her name was cast, strewn onto the street. In a desperate attempt to avoid the conversation that was searching for her, she hunched her shoulders and lowered her face. Taking extra care to scuff her shoes along the concrete and not to steal a glance back, she walked fearlessly towards the pitch black and listened for the domino effect; following footsteps belonging to the one who hoped to anchor her to the moment. 

While Matthew was trying to convince her to be something, Elizabeth just wanted to be. She had drifted, aimlessly, often reappearing for a shallow amount of time each blue moon, give or take. Sometimes her movement was enough to create a surging ripple throughout the town not unlike that of a pond after it's smooth surface is penetrated by a small object, perhaps a pebble. When she left, however, the excitement was quickly diminished. 

The air stiffened as a figure rose from the nothing and, face shrouded by shadows, exhaled slowly, a stream of mist representing his breath. Elizabeth took one longing look in the opposing direction, a sudden comfort lurking in the quiet alley ways and dim parking lots.