Smokebreak

The rooftop smells like death. The good kind, though—slow, self-inflicted, one cigarette at a time. Years of tar and nicotine have soaked into the concrete up here, stained the walls near the door this ugly yellow color that facilities stopped trying to scrub off ages ago. Nobody comes up here anymore. They moved the designated smoking area to the ground floor a while back, right next to the parking garage, where you have to make small talk with whoever else is killing themselves on company time.

Yeah, no. Fuck that.

You light your third cigarette of the hour and lean against the railing. Fourteen floors down, the city does its thing without you. Up here, it’s just wind and smoke and the beautiful silence of not having to explain to anyone why the numbers still don’t add up.

Audit season. Two weeks in, three to go. You stopped sleeping right around day four.

You take a long drag, hold it till your lungs sting, and let it out slow. Doesn’t fix the knot between your shoulders, but it makes it bearable. That’s all you’re asking for at this point.

Footsteps behind you. Heels on concrete.

You don’t bother turning around. If HR’s finally come to write you up for smoking in an unauthorized area, they can get in line behind your last three “impressive” performance reviews and that passive-aggressive email chain about your “break frequency.”

“Do you have more of that?”

Woman’s voice. Low, not in a rush. Definitely not HR—those people always sound sorry before they screw you over.

You look over your shoulder.

She’s… not what you expected. Looks like she wandered out of a photoshoot and got lost. Camel-colored coat, big and expensive-looking, the kind where you can’t see a label but you know it costs more than your rent. Auburn hair past her shoulders, catching the little bit of sun that’s fighting through the clouds. And her face—all clean angles and cheekbones sharp enough to hurt yourself on.

She doesn’t fit up here. She looks like corner offices and town cars, like anywhere that doesn’t reek of stale cigarettes and bad decisions.

“You sure?” you say. “These aren’t fancy.”

“I’m aware.”

You shrug, pull out the pack, shake one loose. She takes it with slim fingers, nails painted some color that probably has a stupid name like “greige.” You hold out your lighter and she leans in, cups her hand around the flame. You get a whiff of something floral and expensive under all the rooftop stink.

She takes a drag.

You watch her expression flicker—this split-second of genuine disgust before she smooths it over. Almost fast enough to miss.

“That’s actually vile. Like, genuinely unhinged.”

“Yep.”

She tries again anyway. Stubborn. Her nose scrunches up and she holds the cigarette out like it’s personally wronged her entire bloodline.

“This tastes like if depression had a flavor. Who hurt you?”

“Audit season.”

“Okay, that makes sense.”

She looks at you. Hard to tell if she’s annoyed or amused. Probably both.

“I needed stress relief,” she says. “Left mine at home like an idiot, figured any cigarette would work.” She glares at the one in her hand. “But this is criminal. You might actually be a war criminal.”

“There’s a meditation app. HR won’t stop emailing about it.”

“Tried meditation.”

“And?”

“Wanted to chuck my phone into traffic. Very unmeditative.”

“Building’s fourteen floors. Plenty of traffic down there.”

Her mouth does something—not quite a smile, but close. She drops the cigarette and grinds it out with her heel. Designer heel, from the look of it. Not made for filthy rooftops.

She doesn’t leave.

You take another drag and wait. People who look like her don’t hang around places like this without wanting something.

“You’re not very talkative,” she says. “Giving silent main character energy.”

“I’m on break.”

“Same.”

She moves closer. Close enough you can see her pulse going at her throat. Her eyes are dark, hard to read, watching you like she’s figuring something out.

“Cigarettes,” she says, slower now, “are basically about oral fixation, right? Hand to mouth. Something to do with your lips. Something to suck on.” She tilts her head a little like a puppy devoid of reason. “Kind of pathetic when you think about it.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Thanks?”

“No, I mean—” She waves her hand. “The coping mechanism. Not you. You’re fine. Whatever.”

“Good to know.”

“But I have another idea.” Another step closer.

Wind picks up and pulls your smoke away. You look at her—perfect face, expensive clothes, this certainty in the way she holds herself that doesn’t quite hide something restless underneath. She’s not asking permission. She’s letting you know what’s happening.

“I don’t know your name,” you say.

“Does that matter?”

“Not really.”

“Cool. Love that we’re efficient about this.”

You think about the audit, the spreadsheets, how you haven’t done a single interesting thing in weeks.

“Sure,” you say. “Why not.”

“Wow. Don’t hurt yourself with all that enthusiasm.”