Leaning over the railing, cigarette held hard between her fingers, she didn't mind the rain on her head or shoulders or feet. Her light blue pajamas dotted with Japanese Lucky Cats were soaked up to her ankles with the water pooling on the walkway. She drew in smoke just as a slick, little silver car rolled around the corner past the pine trees into her vision. Holding the smoke down in her lungs, she tilted her head, shifting her body, feeling her bones adjusting, her muscles moving. Soreness in every inch. Anatomy class was making her too aware of how her body was nothing but a common thing easily dissected, easily destroyed, easily put down.
She didn't disregard the man getting out of the car, but she certainly paid him very little attention. She exhaled, and the smoke flattened out in the rain. The sky was white-grey and seemed flat like a painting, like if she reached far enough, she could touch it and feel God's strokes against the canvas. Her eyes followed the man up the staircase. He was around her age, her height, her educational level. He had vices like hers. His cigarette butts were neatly in an ashtray, hers were scattered in front of her welcome mat and in the bushes below. He glanced up at her, all violently distinguished blue eyes and sharp cheekbones and dark hair cutting sideways across his forehead. She stared back, remorseless, unrepentant.
He reached the top of the stairs. In one smooth move, he turned his hand over and gave her several pieces of mail. She found her gaze fixed immediately down on the letters and realized they had been misplaced in his mailbox but were indeed hers.
Her fingers weren't shaking because of the cold or the rain, but they were trembling regardless when she took her mail from him. He stepped up towards her door and inadvertently closer to her.
He had cologne on, something dampened by the rain and the weather that had been plaguing the city for days. The faint husky, delirious, perfect smell still floated in the air between them, battling her cigarette smoke. She almost winced when he pushed his fingers back into his pocket as she studied his attire - dark, business clothes, white crisp shirt under a black jacket, with a midnight blue tie wet from the rain. At the same moment, he seemed to be admiring her clothing, and she did wince finally, pulling back towards her door.
He watched her retreat. The briefest of tactics had occurred. He advanced on someone entrenched, and with his might, merely and mildly wielded, had forced her out of her position and back to her home base. She almost wanted to scowl, but instead she felt a flush coming up her neck and into her cheeks.
Her neighbor stayed in place, though his left eyebrow quivered then quirked up in clear question of her backing away.
But she really couldn't answer.
She was already back in her apartment when she realized in the exchange of her mail from his hand she had given him her still lit cigarette.
Had she lost the battle? Oh, completely.
