Something Burning

	It's the way he smokes those cigarettes, sitting at the 
window, Mild Sevens and crystal ashtray arranged on the ledge. 
Sandalwood and jasmine; who are you praying for?

	His skin is ghostly pale against the black turtleneck he 
wears, melting into the dark room. Sometimes I think he gets a kick 
out of dressing like this. Scaring me. Scaring himself.

	He flicks ash off the lighted end and takes a long drag. 
Smoke slips out between his lips in twisting curls, only to be 
chased outside by the wind. He'll die with his lungs filled with 
tar, but he'll die young and beautiful.

	Eyelids flutter open. He knows I'm there. When his eyes 
focus, he grinds his cigarette out forcefully in the ashtray. "I 
don't want dinner."

	"I brought the paper..."

	"I'll read it later." He taps another stick out of the 
box.

	"Fine." I fling the rolled up newspaper across the room. 
It smacks him in the shoulder. The lighter in his hands clatters 
to the floor. "Have it your own goddamned way." I walk out.

	It's the way he smokes those cigarettes. They make my 
eyes water.

	The burning smell follows me through the house.