Natalya Stops to Smoke

Natalya at night, striding through London, cool, intense, and annoyed. She carries with her a manuscript she's freshly finished. Her publisher, an irritating, neurotic, and highly competent businesswoman called earlier that day, badgering her yet again about her new novel. In true form, Natalya had promised its completion before dawn. Grinning to herself, Natalya hurries on, picturing her publisher drinking disgusting amounts of tea, pacing about her Essex apartment all night, waiting for her to appear. She had begged in vain for Natalya to send it electronically, pleaded with her to make things easier, to no avail. Natalya would deliver it in person or not at all.

Winding through the streets of London, she feels as though she is slicing through the fog. She whips out her hand and pretends to cut it like cake. Giggling to herself, she continues on. She feels good, businesslike, in control. She glides along, the fog growing denser, the night growing deeper, and she begins to regret not getting a cab. She imagines getting mugged, a theif in the night robbing her of her manuscript, publishing it, achieving worldwide acclaim. She laughs again and decides to turn her fantasy into a short story.

She glances up, the fog obscuring the street signs. She feels a prickle on the back of her neck and hurries on, trusting her own intuitive sense of direction.This is how she has always lived her life, bobbing and weaving, maneuvering on pure instinct and verve. So far so good.

All at once, the fog clears. She finds she's in a lonely, narrow alley. A forgotten street, bereft even of rats. She is completely lost. She pulls out her cigarette, lights one, and takes a deep pull. Ahhh.. Her exhale seems to last an eternity as she feels her body relax, feels the tension drain from her muscles, feels the stress depart from behind her eyes. A minute has passed, and she is still exhaling, the smoke gathering before her, a new fog, her own fog, coalescing, undulating, revolving. It stays before her. Not dissipating, merely curling over itself, growing, gaining capacity. She takes another drag, and the cloud seems to momentarily recede, before expanding exponentially on her exhale, gaining shape, becoming monolithic, nearly human. It stands before her, a head taller than her. A head. She can barely make out a head, faceless, veiled, a shrouded clitoris engorging as if to feed on the night air. She puffs again, and the apparition moves towards her, grey tendrils of smoke slowly reaching out, as if to caress, to explore, a being that has just acquired a sense of touch.

Unafraid, Natalya reaches into the cloud, displacing some of the smoke. The figure ripples, squirms, seems to grow more transparent. Then solidifies again. Ash falls from her cigarette and she and the figure pause to look at the ember. She feels a hilarious compulsion to apologize. The figure continues its movement, reaching for her, and now it is all around her. She drags on her cigarette, and the cloud sighs, and Natalya sighs, the smoke leaking from her mouth, the figure growing, consuming her, the tendrils brushing her arms, her neck, reaching beneath her clothing to explore her body, her legs, breathing into her sex, it's a warm sensation, a harsh but airy touch. She steps forward and is now in the cloud, it's grey, tinged with blue, its essence entering her nose, her mouth. She embraces it, drinks it, and it breathes her. She feels her smoke inhale, the cigarette falls from her fingers, still lit, the stream of smoke adding to the cloud, the cloud engulfing her, stronger, more ravenous, it plays with its favorite parts of her body, her thighs, her breasts, her mouth. It lifts her into the air and carries her high above London.

She sees all of it, feels the humanity, the electricity of nighttime in a city. Far below, she hears a small hiss. The cigarette has gone out. She inhales deeply, deeper than she thought possible, and she is the master of the smoke, of the London fog, she has it in her, feels it churning, tumbling, passionate but satisfied, and she exhales, the smoke cascading from her lungs, dissipating to join the rest of the fog, the last of it barely carrying her back down to the streets before retiring to bask in the glare of a streetlight. Exhausted but alive, Natalya stands still for a minute, enjoying the freshness of the night. Remembering her meeting, she begins to walk, tapping a cigarette out of her pack.