Smokes

"Smokes"
a novel
by Jessica Getty

AN EXCERPT:
The city was shades of gray, streaming yellow lights above and cliche, a plane in the distance made noise of the bridge. Marie took a long drag of her clove and watch the smoke drift up her face and fade into the city skyline. A boat sounded.

"All adrift, we have to shift, never taking what we're making, a dry smile for the miracle mile," she said with a sigh, reciting a line from a poem she had written for Daniel some years ago, back when she actually wrote poetry instead of reading and hating it. Poetry is for the hopeless, she would tell herself, keeping her senses clean.

Her shoulders slumped, a pale comparison to the staunch buildings, uptight and magnificent, a glory for those who stand, not reserved for those who sit or sleep.

Patrick appeared behind her, stumbling out the window.

"Why'd you leave the party?" asked Patrick, as he took a seat next to Marie.

"Had some dreaming to kill," said Marie.

"That's hardly inspiring."

"Wow. Nothing gets by you, eh?"

"Ah, there's that charm of yours," Patrick said with a small laugh. Marie smiled too.

"Patrick, what should become of us? What are we supposed to be doing? What are we supposed to be accomplishing? Aren't we supposed to be martyrs by now or something?"

"God, no, I don't want to be a martyr until I've long given up."

"Then that's not a martyr."

"Just because the history books never wrote that a martyr begged for his life doesn't mean that he didn't," Patrick said with a gloating smile. "I'll see you back inside."

Patrick slipped inside the window and returned to their friends. Marie took a long drag of her clove and slumped over her knees a little more, her legs dangling off the roof, some eight stories up on a hill. What if she were to fall? What if she were to fly? Is there any different in the beginning stages? No, not really. All it takes is one jump and one leap of confidence.

She'd probably be able to write good poetry after the hospital stay. She wondered if the nurses and doctors would let her smoke if she were dying.

God help Heaven if it doesn't have a smoking room, she thought.

Marie smiled. That was a good line. Maybe she'd write a poem tonight, as soon as her guests were gone. Or maybe she'd jump. Either way, whether in Heaven or Hell, at least it's not limbo.

She felt sick to her stomach. She took a final draw of smoke, filling her lungs with the waves of gray, watching the fog roll into the city from the bay. She stood up and headed back into her apartment, but not without one final look at the city. She wished that someone had been playing a saxophone for the moon. It was too pretty. Maybe a tuba it for the bay. Maybe a french horn for the car alarms. Maybe a clarinet for the birds. Maybe a trumpet for the lovers with their shades pulled, waiting for the morning to come and their day to change. In a city, there are no musicians that want you to hear free music. They just slip up from time to time, playing what they want, forgetting there are others around.

And maybe that's all it took for her to write poetry.