“Cigarette?”

He was standing next to her at the bar, and she had not even noticed. Now he was gesturing towards her with a soft cigarette packet, a single smoke poking up out of the packet, like a little tower protruding from the foundation of its brothers and sisters, not yet freed from their packaging.

“Er, thankyou, no. I don’t smoke.”

She hoped that he would go away; she was in no mood to be hit upon.

“I’m sorry, sweetheart, it just looked like you could use a pick-me-up.”

It occurred to her that this was an odd choice of words considering that he was trying to pick her up. She could not resist having a little fun with him.

“And what is supposed to be the pick-me-up, the smoke or what would come later in your motel room?”

His face reddened and he picked up his drink and beat a hasty retreat to the other end of the bar. Why were men so sure that they were what she needed?

It never crossed her mind that his motives were most likely less motivated by her needs. She raised a finger;

“Another please.”

—

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