When Marla wraps her fingers around a cigarette and lights the fire in dark mode, and inhales the first puff of the fresh tobacco; you feel the urge to meet her. Cross her and come by again for eye contact for a conversation to happen. That never happens.
But whatever happens, happens in slow motion. Black and white.
Only the smoke remains afterwards. That you can inhale. Second-hand smoke of Marla’s cigarette. A fine epilogue, nonetheless.
