The thirteenth cigarette
Rayane Clícia Ataíde
I took another cigarette from the smoked wallet. It was my twelfth night. I savored each drag with the lightness of my insane youth.
My cell phone vibrated from time to time announcing a continuously rejected call that night. The coffee table in the living room was filled with cigarette ash and a little wine I spilled.
I heard music that tinkled in my head mixed with unbroken memories. I tried to form letters out of cigarette smoke like Alice’s caterpillar, but I could only see undefined shapes coming out of the window from where the cold winter wind came.
It was snowing. And I was dressed only in an old sweatshirt and cotton pants. However, I felt safe in the cold, as if nothing could reach me at that moment.
My glass of wine had a lipstick mark on it. It didn’t even seem that a few minutes ago I would have gone to a party had it not been for the immense desire to throw myself from the eighth floor of my building.
I got up from the couch and went to the fridge. I picked up a jar of ice cream that Pedro had left there in the morning aware that I hate ice cream. I took a spoon and turned on the TV where cheap, meaningless programs were playing. I drank almost all the ice cream with slow, negligible spoonfuls.
The cell phone kept ringing, which irritated me. I left the jar of semi-empty ice cream on the table and took out my cell phone, not before taking my thirteenth cigarette and lighting it with the golden lighter.
I walked at a bare pace to the balcony of the building and watched the movement of the street. Few cars passed by, after all, it was after three in the morning.
I slowly took off my sweatshirt and cotton pants.
I touched my breasts over the bra with goosebumps at every curve. I took it out. And finally the wine-colored panties. I found myself completely naked on the balcony of the building. Only with a cell phone in his right hand and the thirteenth cigarette in his left.
I don’t know if anyone saw me. But it didn’t even matter, after all, I would die now.
I just smoked the last cigarette of my life and dropped the phone on the balcony floor. He no longer played. They gave up on me, after all.
I leaned over the balcony and felt the extreme cold in my fragile bones. I only felt that cheap human fragility.
I was a Verônika by Paulo Coelho, so I threw myself out of the building.