Katie smokes cigarettes.
Three a day, she says; one on her way to class, one just before shop, and one sometime in the evening.
She has a bright green lighter; when she uses it the flames flicker in her eyes.
"Are you pretending to fly?" I glance over at her in surprise.
"How could you tell?"
"You're leaning forward, hun," she says, tapping the paper. A few ashes trail off onto the air, gone before my eyes can greet them.
You and your cigarettes. Makes me laugh.
When I'm with you,
I'm always flying.
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