Eight Seconds
He breathes in.
Smoke slides into his lungs, burning the soft tissue unexpectedly. He coughs, a specific combination of muscle contractions and relaxations. Complex yet instinctive. His lungs clear.
He breathes in again.
He runs his tongue over his bottom lip and winces at the bitter taste of nicotine and tar. A greasy, waxy substance coats his lips. He rubs a little off onto his fingers - lipstick, fire-engine red. As strident as sirens. Leaping has taught him the nuances of cheap cosmetics. This one tastes of the nineteen-seventies.
He breathes out.
A sharp, nagging pain where a thick gold band digs into the skin on the ring finger of his left hand. This is the only jewellery, which surprises him.
He breathes in.
Bright, bright orange nail polish, chipped slightly on the right hand. A slowly burning cigarette sending spirals of thin grey smoke into the air. The nicotine mist stings his eyes as touches their surface. He blinks. He presses the cigarette, lit-end down into a yellow glass ashtray on the arm of the chair.
He breathes out.