By Alexis C.
Dirty grey smoke drifting lazily to the cracked ceiling of the tiny musty room.
Cobwebs in the corner, a sickly yellow light from a dusty lamp beside the bed.
Clothes strewn in every direction, bodies lying side by side in the empty quiet.
A gentle tap on the cylinder, a scattering of ashes among the creased rumpled sheets.
Fingers stroking across the smooth curve of a cheek.
"It's a nasty habit."
An observation, a statement. Dispassionate, cold.
A pointed look, a darkly amused murmur.
"It's one of many."
The intermingling of red and gold.