The Cigarette by Ajani Burrell

         A cloud blotted out the full moon. Across the courtyard the neighbor’s apartment one floor lower glowed like the crimson eye of a hearth oven. The pervasive damp-earth scent of Frankfurt in spring had disappeared. I was sure I could smell violets from the adjacent garden, vaguely resembling her perfume. She moved from room to room, long ebony hair dancing in her wake. I took a deep breath.

          “So,” my wife said. “How was the cigarette?”

“What?”

          Her fingertip caught a page’s edge in her book. “Real smooth, Charles.”

          “Oh,” I said. “It was fine.”

Michelle lay in bed behind me, the covers up to her waist, wearing the faded red Victoria Secret flannels I’d given her a few years back. The Christmas-colored underwear of the same gift had never made it out the box. Her voice was sugary. Had I not heard it so often I would’ve thought her happy. She slapped the book closed.

            Framed by open curtains, a silhouette of the woman’s back posed in the window. My hand reached for the windowsill, and I turned one ear to my wife.

            “Charles,” she said, “you stink.”

            My feet tingled as I searched for something else to look at.

            “Really, if you’re going to smoke, just do it. Don’t pull this nonsense where you pretend you’re emptying the garbage, then come up and wash your hands like it never happened,” she said, and followed with more of the same old standby – how I’m almost forty, how I smoke too much, how I’d promised to stop when we moved to Germany and again when Jonathan was born. That was six years ago for Pete’s sake. It should’ve been clear that promise was going to stay broken a while longer.

The woman turned to face the window. Directly above, a sliver of moon came from behind the cloud, lighting the courtyard.

            I’d never seen her before, never met her until ten minutes ago, which was strange since we’d been in the apartment almost five years. I had been downstairs searching my pockets for a lighter. From up the street came the staccato of heels striking cobblestone. It wasn’t pumps or flats, clogs or boots, but the focalized click-clack of high heels coming home after midnight.

At the mailboxes in the entranceway she’d stopped. Her patent leather shoes glistened in the amber lamplight. “Guten Abend,” she said, her key sliding the mailbox lock open.

I froze, half-full wicker basket in hand, paper recycling bin gaping open, the all-but-forgotten cigarette dangling from my mouth. I studied my watch and said, “Oder vielleicht guten Nacht.”

Past the hair hanging over her shoulders I saw a smile, or thought so anyway. Her perfume couldn’t mask the heady scent of whiskey. I imagined her putting a glass to full lips, wondering what kind she preferred. Single malt with a hint of smoke; neat, no ice.

Three jaunty steps past me she flicked her head and said in her best Queen’s English, “I can smoke in my flat.” 

            She went into her building. I lingered, smoking the cigarette down to the filter. On my way up I thought about what I should have said instead of the lame “Well, that’s a plus,” I’d offered in response. Taking the steps slowly, I avoided out of habit the one with the loose baseboard between the second and third floors. I’d paused, hoping a few more seconds would disperse the leftover scent of smoke. 

            “Charles,” my wife said. “Are you ignoring me?”

            “No,” I said. “I’m not.” 

            “Charles, look at me.”

            I turned halfway. From under the covers she brought one leg, bare up to the hip, where a trace of emerald green lace peeked out. “I’m sorry,” she said with the same smile as when she’s let me win at chess, which is a slightly more sympathetic version of the one when she’s beaten me. Her eyes followed mine to the lace band. 

“Recognize them?” she asked.

“I do.”

“I found them while I was straightening up the closet the other day,” she said. A light blush rose in her cheeks, the same coloration of days gone by, when we were younger and I could make her blush more easily, without thinking about it or even meaning to. The blanket shifted, uncovering more fabric.

            A phone pressed to her ear, the black-haired woman was sliding into the jacket she’d removed just minutes before. I envisioned her strolling into the lobby of a posh hotel, her steps fluid on the marbled floors.

            “Don’t even think about trying to go down for another smoke,” Michelle said.      

            The woman’s head tipped back, her mouth open. She was laughing. And then she wasn’t. She went rigid. My face warmed, and a long moment passed as we studied one another from a distance. She cinched the belt of her jacket and turned from the window.

            “What are you looking at?”

            “The moon,” I said. “Can you see it?”

            From the bed, directly opposite the window, she could see the giant orb alone in a dark sky. “It’s beautiful.”

            “It is,” I said, turning to her after the heat on my face had subsided. The dull echo of the woman’s steps reached our apartment.

            “Amazing,” my wife said.

            A hiccup leapt in my throat. “What is?”

 “How the moon seems like it’s right outside, so close we could almost touch it.”

            I nodded faintly as the rhythms from the courtyard rose and fell, then disappeared.

“Charles,” she said. “Forget about the cigarette and come to bed. Please.” 

            I left the window open and pulled the curtains as far closed as they would go. Through the space that was left, we watched together as the moon passed from view. We made love in the dark, the once-warm air cool at my back. Afterwards, Michelle curled into my chest. Her breath grew deep and I felt the telltale tremble of her leg against mine. She fell asleep, but I did not.