Pretty Little Bones

Oh, Baby You're a Classic, Like a Little Black Dress

Oh, Baby You're a Classic, Like a Little Black Dress

My Cross Country coach in high school always used to say that women were like cigarettes.

If that was true, I figured Ava was a menthol.

Every taste was a mouthful of the haze she lived in and each glance was as addicting as nicotine. Just one hit and you'd be hooked for life. No matter how many times you tried to quit her, you'd always think about her.

You'd see the way her blonde hair gleamed auburn in the sunlight and flashed pale in the moonlight. You'd feel her gray eyes watching you, embers of ash sparkling, highlighting the frowns under her eyes when she smiled.

You could try smoking other kinds, but nothing would compare to the way Ava felt. The full flavors would always be too into themselves. The lights wouldn't have enough depth and would leave a strange, unsatisfying aftertaste. Special blends did weird things in bed that were only worth trying once while the ultra-lights were like cheap hookers that couldn't walk in high heels.

The 100s suddenly became too much and the shorts were never enough.

The brands just became different types of girls, all predictable in their own, unique way. Marlboros wore lots of makeup and pretended the pretty packaging made them something special while Pall Malls wore short-shorts and tube tops with boots and pretended they knew what work was. The Eagle 20s gave you a fairly good bang for your buck, but ended up being unsatisfying while the Cheyenne's thought they were spiritual, but really just conformed to the gratification of pretending to be an individual.

But they were all the same. By pretending to be one-of-a-kind they simply became like everything else. Soft pack or hard pack didn't matter. Nothing mattered.

Except Ava. Ava was a classic.

Ava was her own brand, her own smoke, her own lighter, her own flavor.

Ava was a menthol.

All while you were smoking her you couldn't help but cough up nasty shit. She had this way of just making you trust her with all the things you barely trusted yourself to think about.

It was in the way her eyes were so honest without telling you anything at all. It was how her pretty pink lips were always set in a slight frown that was intimidating without being judgmental.

She could bat those long lashes at you once and suddenly all your secrets and fears would come tumbling out your mouth, your tongue sitting on your jaw as thick as tar. It was a blessing and a curse. Her voice was a cancer that made you feel so safe but so self-destructive.

She was like tearing the filter off and inhaling until the ash burned your fingers.

That was one of my favorite things about Ava. You couldn't just lie to her.

But she could tell all the lies she wanted and no one ever caught her.

We used to drive into fields, park my truck, look at the stars, and tell lies. We'd lay on the hood, I'd light a cigarette, she'd take off her jacket, and we'd bullshit like we had futures. Like there was hope for us.

And as much as she hated it, Ava loved to watch me smoke.

Deny all she wanted, the ember at the end of cigarette was an addiction. She was attracted to it like a Christian to Jesus: it was all just a charade, but it made her feel better.

So when we'd lay out in the fields, wishing on planes flying overhead, I'd smoke cigarettes and she'd be enthralled by them. She'd run her hand over my thighs. She'd trace her fingers across my chest.