Aurora Magazine 2009

Ignition By Amy Watkins She fumbles with the lighter. Rubbing it between her palms, friction warms the cool purple shell that encases clickable fire. She tries again. Click. Nothing. Click. Nothing. Click. Ignition. She closes her eyes in silent resignation as the nicotine floods her lungs. Relief. Eyes cast downward, she recognizes familiarity in yellow shoes and paint stained blue jeans. It’s the form inside giving them shape and function that screams foreign. Puff. Sometimes she finds herself talking to God. Her unseen confidant knows all her deepest secrets. Eyes always to the ground, she waits for an answer. Eyes always to the ground, she’s afraid to be seen. Puff. The pressure is building. Her head is full of questions, her mouth is full with smiles. Puff. Denial. Puff. Smaller in frame in size, she thought she’d be happier. Run. Lift. Run. Happiness can’t thrive in a slave to routine. She craves quiet, she lacks sleep. Puff. The song she sings, and the picture she paints tell stories of rehearsed apologies. She searches for where she went wrong. She fades into the puzzle. Puff. Cough. Filter. Toss. She looks up. The air is heavy. The wind is cool. All around her is sound and motion. It’s so loud. Deafening. Her eyelids fall down. The dark brings a calm. Click. Nothing. Click Nothing. Click. Ignition. She has so many questions that need to be answered, a fresh pack of smokes, and all the time in the world. Puff. Exhale. Smile.