Cigarette Smoke Moments by Julia Pigg

This story is one of the July Writing Challenge entries that was chosen to be a featured story.

Don’t fall in love with the moment and think you’re in love with the girl.
– “She’s American” by The 1975

I didn’t want a sappy love story, which was probably why I turned him down in the first place. I could tell he felt the stars around me, while I only barely brushed the treetops. He was the Eiffel Tower lit up at night, fairy dust, and polaroid pictures, while I was the last, cold sip of coffee, cigarette smoke, and a snapchat photo without filter. I wanted real and he could not give me that.

I was always convinced of this, except for that one time during that one freezing winter night when everyone was drunk and the snow crunched as we sat down on the garden furniture. I don’t know why I doubted myself that night, perhaps I was searching for something real without meaning to, something that would make the whole situation easier for the both of us, something that would make me reach the moon. Anyhow, suddenly, that was what I got. In a cloudy breath of warm, hazy air: “I hope that you find someone to have feelings for, the way I have feelings for you.”

In that moment he was honest and pure and raw and human; he was the last, cold sip of coffee, cigarette smoke, and a snapchat photo without filter, and I finally wanted to kiss his melancholy lips. It scared me, so I blinked. Once. Twice. By the third time I opened my eyes, the glitter slowly started falling out of his hair again, and I knew I wasn’t really in love with him, however much I wanted to be. He was back to being Prince Charming with the Eiffel Tower, the fairy dust, and the polaroid pictures, and I spiraled down back among the treetops, because the moment was gone, and sadly that was all it was: a moment.



Julia Pigg

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