Prose, poetry, fiction, and rambles from people with a bit too much time on their hands.

i believe her name was robin

Robin set down her cellular telephone, battle-scarred and with chipped paint, and a crushed pack of Pall Malls on top of it. She produced a lighter from an auburn overcoat, which seemed warm enough to keep someone happy before they started to feel too warm. Tim, the eccentric that he was, noted in his mind the warmth of the place they were in, a café, and made a guess as to how long it would take before she would take it off. Five minutes.  His head tilted slightly to the left, noticing a “No Smoking” sign hung in between a print of a Rothko and a print of a Picasso. He then proceeded to lift his cup from a saucer stained with the coffee he had accidentally spilled. Robin lit her cigarette, with the dexterity of someone who began to do so way too early for their own good, and took a three second drag. She looked at Tim for a brief moment, somewhat longingly.

“Since when do you smoke?” Tim asked, after setting down his cup. He could taste, though faintly, the coffee grinds; he would need a refill soon.

“For a while now, really. Just never around you, it seems, or at least, not when I saw you last,” she replied, after exhaling a puff of smoke, directly onto Tim’s face. He coughed.

“I was thinking about something else, probably,” And in all actuality, he probably was.

“My ass, of course.” she quipped, though the line seemed well-rehearsed.

“Obviously.”

“I wouldn’t blame you.” Tim pushed away the notion that indeed, that line of thought had crossed his mind.

The air soon filled with the stench of nicotine. None of the other patrons seemed to care, for it seemed, to add to the pretentious air that was the cafe, nicotine must be involved. Tim and Robin sat parallel from each other, at a round table, exchanging no words, as they had since the last time they parted. They had not had a conversation for well over a week. They hadn’t embraced for the exact amount of time. Seven minutes passed, and Robin had kept the auburn overcoat on. Tim noticed a chip on the cup that he encircled with his fingers, and tapped it softly. He looked up, and saw her lips begin to move.

“Please stop not loving me,” she whispered, “It’s better that way.” Another puff of smoke. Robin proceeded to stand up, clutching what was now just a filter between her left index and middle finger.

“What?” Tim asks.

The door nearby opened and closed, letting in three seconds of cold air. It caused Tim to shiver. He looked across the table, hoping to see the auburn overcoat hung over a chair, awaiting Robin’s return, though that was merely wishful thinking. Instead, he found the crushed pack of Pall Malls, now a cigarette short. Robin didn’t have the decency to leave a lighter. He wasn’t much of a smoker, anyway, he reassured himself, and finished off his coffee. It seemed that there was more to them than a night shared, just about a week ago.

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