Who Smokes Colored Cigarettes?

She waited for him to answer the door. He had messaged her at nine in the morning that he was back. She guessed that he must have taken the late night flight back from Frankfurt. He had been gone for two weeks. She stood there, holding her arms tight against the slightly chilly late morning wind, smiling to the door.

His maid answered the door.  She smiled warmly at the maid. After a moment of hesitation, the maid greeted her.

To her surprise, the house looked immaculately dusted and swept. There were flowers in the living room and on the ledge besides the stairs to his room. The door to his room was open, and she shut it behind her.  The latch clicked. She could hear the shower running in his bathroom. “Give me five minutes,” he called out. “Take your time,” she responded. The water continued to gush.

“How long have you been back?” she asked, from outside.

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“Three days,” he said, his voice barely audible.

She raised the window screens and the sun came pressing on her face. She walked over to the bed. The ashtray on the bed- side table was full. There was his brand, his brother’s, and stubs of lilac colored cigarettes. She looked at the floor- exotic marble that they had chosen when he bought the place a month ago. She went over to the wall cabinet and opened the side cupboard in which he kept the things that she would forget behind- earrings, Chap Sticks, watches  etc.

He came out, dressed.

“Who smokes colored Nat Sherman?”She asked, facing the cabinet, her back to him.

“A… friend of mine,” he said.

She looked at him and their eyes met.

“I see,” she said, turning back to the cupboard.

She began keeping her things in her handbag. And he looked on.