She sat on the windowsill of her fourth floor apartment smoking menthol cigarettes one after another, flicking the still burning ends down onto the street. The second and third fingers of her right hand had burns near the nails where she had carelessly let the cigarettes burn down too far. Her eyes stayed fixed on the street down below where the occasional passer-by would tread on the butts.
‘Are you ready to go?’ I enquired as softly as I could.
She tossed the seventh cigarette and it danced downwards nearly landing on the neighbour’s tabby. It hissed at the cigarette as if it were reading for a confrontation. Once it realised it was in no danger the cat sulked off down the side of the house.
‘We’ll have to leave soon.’
I didn’t expect a response from her and I didn’t receive one. Instead she picked up another cigarette, placed it between those scorched fingers, lifted it to her mouth and tried to light it. However the wind had picked up and the flame struggled to form. I was half contemplating whether to prompt her again but I thought it best to say nothing. Finally she got a light after sheltering the flame from the breeze and resumed her position. Her back was against the wall, one leg was stretched out across the windowsill and one dangled out. I had told her before that it didn’t look safe but she never listened. The wind picked up again and a few strands of her auburn hair touched the lit end and were burnt instantly. She didn’t try to push her hair away, instead she let the strands break and become stuck to the end of the cigarette. I could smell the hairs burning and it smelt like toast that had been left too long in the toaster.
‘I hate that cat’, she finally said to me. I knew she hated that cat, for years I have heard her talk about it. How it always tried to get into the apartment to rummage for food, how it would maim the blackbirds in the garden and how it would wail in the night. I always took pity on the thing, it looked so dishevelled and frail that on occasion I would let it in and feed it slices of ham.
I saw the taxi pull up to the front door and then my phone bleat out. ‘We need to go’. She crushed the cigarette against the brick and turned to me. Her face looked unlike hers; the features seemed contorted making it almost unrecognisable. Swinging her leg over she sat for a moment. Then her burnt fingers stroked her softly rounded stomach. I think that was her way of saying goodbye and that she was sorry.
