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Anne took a cigarette - by Genevieve Edwards
Anne took a cigarette between two fingers, twirling it deftly to her mouth. She pursed it between her lips as she rummaged around in her bag for a lighter, and flicked her eyes up briefly to meet mine.
For some reason, when Anne smoked, it was not uncivil or offensive. Even as she clipped away at the old lighter, and was finally able to inhale sharply and deeply, then send a jet of smoke from the corner of her mouth, one expected the little furls that formed to smell like ginger and cinnamon. There was something natural and elegant about it. It was the same when she drank, or flirted, or indulged in any bad habit for that matter. Because it did not seem like indulging when she did it – it always seemed like the cigarette, the glass, the man, were something inevitable, beyond choice or morals.
Once she had flicked her lighter shut, Anne spun the little thing in her fingers, making the light glint off it, and held it out for me. This was a habit of hers – she was always offering things to people. It made me think of the little girl whose parents ran the off-licence next door. She would totter around the shop floor while her mother watched Bollywood films on a tiny screen stuffed between crazy piles of gum and lottery tickets. When the little girl, not yet old enough to talk, decided she liked you, she would waddle to the nearest shelf, drag off whatever item was closest to hand, and thrust it at you with large, brown, beseeching eyes. Anne was the same. It was as if she felt the need to give you a little bit of herself. If she caught you looking at her bracelets, she would tug them off and make you try them on. She must only ever have heard half a song, because when she listened to music, she would hand one earphone to you without a word, as if it was the natural thing to do. As far back as I could remember, before drinking, she would go through a little ritual in which she put the glass to her lips, only to stop, glance at you over the rim, and then hand you the drink. Once I had completed my part in the ritual, kissing the edge of the glass and letting the tiniest trickle of liquid enter my throat, she would seem satisfied.
‘Didn’t Mark give you this?’ I said, taking the lighter.
‘No, Nick.’
‘Pretty.’
‘Hmm.’
I handed it back to her, and watched as she took a long drag and then, holding the cigarette aloft between index and middle finger, stuffed the lighter back into her bag.
‘Are you two still going out?’
She shook her head,
‘No.’
‘Anyone else?’
There was always someone else.
‘I don’t know. To be honest, I’m kind of bored. Or, I don’t know, maybe I’m just unlovable.’ She flicked her eyes towards me and laughed.
‘Don’t be stupid. Everyone likes you.’
‘Oh no, I’m likable. I’m very likable. That’s what teachers always used to call me, on my school reports – “Anne is a very likable girl.” But they’re different, aren’t they? Being likable and lovable?’ She waited for my answer. Even though I was a few years younger than Anne, she always gave my opinions as much importance as her own.
‘I think you’re both. I love you anyway.’
‘Well of course you do. You have to. We’re cousins. I mean, it’s not like I actually like you.’ And she flashed me 1 | 2 NEXT |
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