She's smoking in the room again, exhaling out the window. Perched on the ledge, eleven floors above the ground and looking down. She isn't afraid of falling but you are. She's wearing nothing but her underwear. The shade of green harmonious on her skin. The inky black tangles of her hair are coiled ropes falling over her breasts. Shoulders slumped forward, stray curls graze the fragile bumps of her spine. Her collarbones rise and fall with each breath, a movement so natural, it shouldn't faze you. But the sight is arresting to you because it confirms the existence of the life force within her. She is breathing, living and you are the only witness to it at this very moment. She folds one arm over her chest and raises the cigarette to her lips. Taking sips of air through a cancerstick she calls it. Glancing over to you, she smiles. The sunlight laced in her lashes, she keeps her eyes half closed. And that is all you need. That picture she paints for you of herself you will keep with you. If someone were to ever mention her name, this is what you would see in your mind's eye.

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