smokin' | louigan

forty-four

3:34 a.m.

logan bush rubbed his chin, allowing the blond stubble to scratch his palm. the cigarette in his mouth felt right, the smoke in his lungs necessary. he was on a bench, on his last cigarette.

when he looked up, first at the smoke he puffed from his lips, he saw the moon. that night it was just a sliver yet it remained stark against the cloudless sky. through the smog of the small city, he could see some stars, though he knew there were millions more out there, waiting for someone, for anyone's eyes to behold them.

he blinked. once.

twice.

his eyes slid closed. he puffed on his cigarette, the taste of menthol warming his tongue.

when he opened his eyes once more he was walking, old converse slapping the pavement in the stark silence, save for the light buzzing of the streetlamps.

he could still see louise in the corner of the room. he didn't want to. he didn't want that image of her—her tears, her sorrow, her pain that he had caused—to be the last memory of her.

she deserved so much more.

~

louise was lying on the sofa. somehow her body was still throbbing even after over twelve hours had passed. she hadn't bothered to do anything: open the restaurant, eat lunch, shower. her mind was depleted, her usual vigor gone, replaced by this aggressively hollow feeling. a lost puzzle piece, a piece of a broken meteor floating through the universe.

she felt untethered. a kite without a string. perhaps a cloud, a thin storm cloud, passing over the world. a vague existence; suddenly, everything had become extremely unclear to her.

she rolled over onto her side, facing the dull screen of the television. everything was dull. she didn't feel her usual spark, the sarcastic charisma that she was known for. that logan knew her for.

she closed her eyes.

the image of logan appeared once more. his hair was a stark gold, brighter than the sun. eyes like rivers, cheeks warm and pink from laughing. his smile was breathless, clean, caused a slight dimple in his left cheek.

there were no cigarettes, no tears, no red vision. just logan. just logan bush.

and suddenly, he faded away. the image folded, shattering into millions of pieces. all that was left was an empty sidewalk and a lone pack of cigarettes on his usual bench.

a slight breeze wafted in through the open windows of the living room. louise felt a chill go down her spine. she sat up suddenly and turned around, finding no one there. she shook her head, cleared the image of logan coming back, and laid back down.

her eyes slid closed. the darkness enveloped her. she hadn't felt so warm and so cold at once in months. a soft sigh fell from her lips as sleep overcame her.

-

dreams are a depiction of reality, the reality we want to see.

louise dreamt of logan. he was sitting on her bed leaning back on his elbows, asking her to roll up her tights one more time as he crossed his legs. she complied, again and again and again, for just one more signature smile.

logan dreamt of cigarettes. cartons of cigarettes lining the walls, an enclosed room filled with smoke and nicotine and silence. a figure sat in the middle, an unlit cig between their plump lips. when they pulled out a lighter their face was illuminated. he shuddered at the hint of pink over their head.

dreams aren't meant for the real world. they're figments, floating images of memories, memories that we hate and adore. they're flickers of fantasy, fictitious promises never to be made.

dreams are nothing.

everything.

a grey area. an in-between zone of consciousness and trivial fantasy.

louise hated these areas.

logan adored them.