A Cigarette's Worth of Thought

Also written around a year and a half ago, a slightly different style and persona to my other short story.

It's his eyes. It must be his eyes. I continue to speculate as I light and take a drag of my cigarette before looking back over to him, peering up through my eyelashes. The scrutiny must be showing in my expression, as he opens his mouth to speak. “What are you thinking about?” His eyebrow raises. That must be it. It always gets me when he does that. No. There's more. So much more. 
I realise it has been a matter of seconds since his question, and he is still watching me, expectantly. I need to speak. “You.” Well, it's an honest answer. It's just cutting out the part that makes me sound psycho. 'Yes I'm just watching your every move and trying to work out what it is that makes you so beautiful' doesn't quite have the same ring to it. Beautiful is an odd word to use for a guy. Controversial I suppose. But that's definitely the right word for him. He laughs, and moves his cigarette into his lips. I watch closely as he slowly inhales with a look of concentration. I love that look. It's one I've seen painted on his face on numerous occasions; smoking, reading, drawing and whenever he concentrates on anything at all. It's completely accidental, mind you, which makes it that bit more interesting. He looks back over to me. I love it when he does that too... Y'know, looks at me. “And what exactly are you thinking?”. At first I think he is flirting, he must know that I am thinking something perfectly wonderful about him. But he has a look of sincere curiosity (and maybe a hint of worry?) on his face. I begin to question what my expression is, and whether I am achieving the calm and collected look that says 'I'm mysterious and sexy', or the 'I'm currently processing a million different thoughts about you and putting full effort into trying to make it seem otherwise' expression. The first would be the better of the two options, however I'm starting to doubt that hope as he laughs again. S**t. 
So, I give up trying to hide my psycho. I turn my body to face his, stretch up onto my toes and wrap the arm that isn't currently occupied by a cigarette around his neck. I pull him down towards me, and pause. “In short, I'm thinking of all the reasons I love you,” He barely gets to smile before we are kissing. As his arms tighten around my back and I get pulled up against him, I realise that this must be it. This feeling. It's funny, trying to describe the feeling you get when that one person that fills up your thoughts, and that you dream of holding like this, wants you close to them. Sort of mind-blowing actually. The kiss is intense, and I'm almost certain that this could lead to something more if we weren't stood in his back garden, fully clothed and freezing. I change my direction of thought. 
I should be used to it by now. Kissing him, I mean. But still, it gets me every time. I swear, there isn't a single time he's kissed me that hasn't taken my breath away. I take a second to recover afterward. He wraps his arms around me and pulls me tightly into him. I feel so safe here, protected and secure. I peer up once again, and look at him from a lower angle than before. He has his eyes closed, and from my height, I can see how his eyelashes curve upward. It is this feature, and the shape of his upper lip that I always look at when I'm close to his face and he can't see me looking. They're my favourites. There's something about seeing the tiny details and knowing him this well that make me feel sort of honoured. No-one else gets this, to know him that well. To know how his breathing changes in his sleep or what pattern his heartbeat makes. Which must make me pretty f*****g special, right? Yes. That's it. The fact that he lets me see how beautiful he is, makes him beautiful. Because no-one else can feel like this about him, because they don't see any of it. He pulls me out of my sudden realisation by a small kiss on my forehead. I want to get lost in him, and this moment but, with opening my eyes, I realize my cigarette is burning down, fast. I reluctantly wriggle out of his arms, and take another drag. Trying subtly to look good as exhale. Though not subtly enough; he notices. Damn. And now, he's looking at me. Really looking at me, as if there is something on his mind. I wonder if this is the same look I have been giving him for the last 4 minutes. I give him a questioning expression. 
“I love you”. He states quietly; almost a whisper. I feel... alive. This is another of the things I should be used to. I tend to always feel very overwhelmed when he tells me this fact. I still stand by the fact that he deserves more than little old me. But he won't have any of it. Not that I'm complaining,
We stand, our free hands intertwined, smoking our cigarettes and laughing for another 3 minutes, then flick the remains and turn to face each other again. He pulls me back against him, and kisses me with a little more intensity than last time. After catching our breath, he turns, holding my hands in his, and pulls me towards the door to re-enter his house.
Only now do I allow my thoughts to continue in that direction...

Author's Note

Any feedback comparing the style in this and my other short stories would be very helpful, to see if I am establishing characters enough.

Reviews

[kingsley]

I really felt like I related to this piece because of your characters. And for me, being able to relate to the characters makes everything more believable and established. Great job:)