Chloe always had a cigarette tween her fingers. Thick curls of smoke fell from her full lips and glided lazy into the fog of the alleyway air. Every day in this city was cloudy, and I used to imagine that those rainy afternoons were her doing; the skies filled with the fumes of her little burning pleasures.
That fragrant haze of cigarette smoke is why I called her Chloe. Sounds like 'cloy' every cigarette contributed to the overabundance, so much so that it was like death danced around her. Though I had been lighting up for years and years, at no time in my life had I encountered such a dedicated smoker. She never moved from her spot