Monday, February 15, 2010


My creative writing professor asked if I loved him. I wrote about him because of the humor, but I can see where she would get that question after reading the last piece i wrote for class...

The fado singer in the background crooned in desperation every now and again with Portuguese songs about the motherland and lost love played from the old record player. The wooden chest I sat on and the art magazines with too many naked women with odd body language that covered the chest didn’t cause me the discomfort that they usually do. The last of the Lisbon sunshine filtered into the room giving leaving a slight orange glow. Hugo was shinning like a god, and the smoke from his last cigarette worshipped him. In a sort of dream-like motion his hand flipped the lighter open and with a perfected technique from years of practice he lit a new cigarette and brought it to his hungry mouth. Inside his lungs were screaming for the nicotine fix, but in the room there was only another song in Portuguese with the occasional popping and scratching that comes with the records. The cigarette was held perfectly between his beautiful full lips. So much so that I needed to reach out and touch it to make sure the scene was real, but I kept myself firmly on the wooden chest and let my mind play games with me. With the first inhale of his newly lighted cigarette his face relaxed and a smile of sated contentedness took its place. The room grew hazy with the smoke he exhaled. It crossed over the freckles that splattered across his dark skin, then traveled past his brilliant piercing blue-green eyes, flowed over his perfectly messed-up hair before drifting over to the wooden chest that held me. The smoke and his gaze caressed every part of my being. They both moved down my long tanned legs, past my bright yellow dress, up my broad shoulders to where my nose waiting anxiously for the smell of smoke to ruin the perfect setting. But as I recognized the smoke smell it was different than ever before. It was warm and inviting. It was dark and sensuous. It held mysterious that were just longing to be uncovered. The smoke was nothing like the cigarette smoke from the United States that made me feel dirty and in need of a shower. This was one that smelled of adventure and newness. One that would cling to my clothes and hair, making me feel deeper and more profound. A smoke that though never inhaled directly, I came to need. An addiction that left me at the whim of another. One who needed the nicotine fix, and I just needed him.

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