Smoke

Do you remember that woman you saw in the cinema hall? The one you couldn’t help looking at despite the fact that you were with your own? The woman who was the reason for an altercation between you and your girl in the intermission?

I know that woman.

Ah, of course, I also know another woman whom I think you know as well. Do you remember the woman whose hand was so delicate, so pristine, that you felt the urge to pretend to be a glove salesman just so you could touch her in some way- however civilised it may be?

Well, I knew her too.

Or rather, I know her. I know her right now, as of this moment. I know what she’s doing. I know what she’s thinking. I know whom, she wants. I know it isn’t you. I know all this because, as fate has it, I am her.

I’m Tasha. Tasha Smokerson. They call me Smoky behind my back. And not without reason- in my presence, talking seems like a wasteful activity for the mouth.

 Look, I have a way with words.

I’ll tell you to go to hell in a way that you’ll actually look forward to the trip.

When I open my mouth to speak, even if I’m dressed like a beggar, or smell like a skunk, you will want to be the one who goes home with me tonight.

I don’t remember the last time I walked into a room unnoticed. It just isn’t possible.

You could be a stud, you could be a wimp, you could be an intellectual, you could be a retard, you could be a manwhore, or you could be gay- as long as you’re a guy, I can make you want me if I want you to. Sadly for you, there are very few chances I’ll want you too.

That’s the real problem with ubiquitous desirability- the elimination process for possible candidates has to be strict as the Bible’s guardian.

Talking about things unholy, I’m Satan’s property. He guards me when he thinks I need it, or when he needs me- so don’t blame me for the handcuffs tied to my bed head or the whip in my closet- not that you would, you’d just feed off the idea. And not that I need a whip to get you whipped.

You are mine when I want you to be.

If you don’t fall for my porcelain skin as inviting as that of a Geisha, you will fall for my long, thick, red hair- all the better to grab onto, isn’t it? If you aren’t previously intoxicated by my inherently perfumed body, I’ll let my big, green eyes do the talking- or maybe even more.

You could be committed to Cleopatra for all I care! But, if I even hint that you have a shot with me… Well, let’s just say, in the heat of the moment, and in the heat of my presence, hormones are going to be a lot more binding than a wedding ring.

I’m the other woman. I’m your weakness. I’m your only vice. I’m the one you want to spend money on. I’m the one who makes you regret having taken those wedding vows. I’m the one who’ll make you want to join a gym. I’m the one all the men want. I’m the one all the women loathe. I am, however, the most popular- sigh, what people won’t do just to get a chance to talk to me!

It’s a pity, really.

It’s a pity I exist.
The world was so close to being imperfect.