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Tiffani was intrigued and a bit uneasy, as she sat at the bar. It wasn't unusual to see a guy watch her put on her nightly show; she often had several men watching her out of the corners of their eyes, trying desperately not to be obvious, seemingly ashamed of the effect she had on them. What was unusual tonight is that this guy was so obvious, and didn't seem ashamed in the least. He had positioned himself at a nearby table with a perfect view of her seat, and was watching Tiffani with undisguised admiration.
Being watched, of course, did not bother Tiffani at all. It was the whole point of her nightly visit to the bar; in her mind, it validated her sexuality to have such extraordinary control over men she didn't even know. But this one made her feel a bit strange.
Any impartial observer would tell you that Tiffani was a very good-looking woman. She was 24 years old, with piercing blue eyes and shimmering dark hair which fell naturally below her shoulders. Her low-cut black top, leather skirt and stiletto heels showed her ample figure and shapely legs to best advantage. Her appearance was perfect, her long flame-red nails well-manicured, her makeup flawless. Yet Tiffani did not feel attractive or sexy--that is, until she was doing what she did best in life: smoking. Only then could Tiffani feel desirable.
Her thoughts were drawn back to her bold admirer. It was almost as if he was issuing a challenge: "Let's see how good you really are." She wasn't used to being challenged, and certainly wasn't used to the odd sensation she felt in the pit of her stomach.
Tiffani took a long drink to clear her head. She said to herself, "Get hold of yourself, girl. You're in control here, remember?" She stubbed out her cigarette, picked up the gold case that was in front of her on the bar, delicately extracted another cigarette, and lit it with the lighter that was hidden in a corner of the cigarette case. She deliberately avoided looking in the direction of her one-member audience, as she drew deeply on her Saratoga 120, letting the warm smoke fill her lungs. Keeping her fingernails wrapped around the cigarette but not removing it from her mouth, Tiffani took a second deep drag, then a third, exhaling twin streams of thick smoke through her nostrils as she inhaled the second and third times. Settling back on her stool and feeling back in control of herself, she took the cigarette from her mouth and expertly french inhaled a large mouthful of smoke, contentedly letting her remaining smoke drift slowly from her nose as she glanced out of the corner of her eye toward the man at the table.
Much to her dismay, he was still calmly watching her. Even worse, a slight smile seemed to play around the corners of his mouth. She knew she was crazy, but she could almost imagine him saying "Not bad, so far."
Once again, Tiffani was shaken. And she responded to this imagined challenge the only way she knew how. "Fine, you want a show," she thought, "let's see you watch this performance without falling under the spell."
Tiffani went to work, and put on the most astounding display of sexy smoking she could muster. She chain-smoked her way through four Saratoga 120s and two Sherman 164s--inhaling until she could almost feel the smoke in her toes--french inhaling--allowing large clouds of smoke to slowly drift from her lips before rapidly inhaling them back in--exhaling showily through her nose--opening her mouth wide after inhales so that a vast ocean of smoke could be seen eddying and swirling before vanishing into her lungs--blowing huge, thick smoke rings which hovered in front of her as she bisected them with streams of smoke. She used every trick she had ever learned. And throughout, he watched politely, smiling occasionally, even ("I must be imagining this," she thought) mouthing encouraging phrases like "very nice" or "well done."
This was the most distressing evening Tiffani had experienced since she discovered the power of smoking. Men were always intimidated by her; she used smoking to control them. Yet, this one seemed oblivious to her power. In fact, she realized with a start, she was actually being controlled by this anonymous voyeur. She felt an unexplainable and desperate need to meet with his approval. Yet she could not bear to admit it. Not yet.
Tiffani thought "let's see how you deal with this type of smoker," and reached into her purse, taking out what appeared to be a small change purse. With a slight glance in the direction of her admirer, she opened the flap and extracted a wad of tobacco and a rolling paper. Delicately yet expertly, she used her long red fingernails to roll an oversized cigarette, placed it between her painted lips, and lit it with a stainless-steel Zippo she used for this express purpose. Deliberately looking in another direction, Tiffani smoked the entire cigarette in what seemed to be less than two minutes, only removing it from her lips twice to delicately flick her ash, before taking two long final long drags and then using her long nails to casually flip the tiny butt, still-lit, into a nearby fern-pot.
Exhaling her remaining smoke through her nostrils, she glanced over triumphantly. Incredibly, he spoke, his words barely audible. "Good, although I've seen better," he said.
Tiffani had to wrap her legs tightly around her bar stool to keep from quivering. Actually, that was just one reason; she also needed to cling to the stool so that she wouldn't be able to give into an overwhelming urge to throw herself at the man's feet and beg him to take her home.
Somehow, Tiffani found the strength to hold her ground. She took another drink, felt her self-control returning, and even managed to smile sweetly at the man who had become as much her tormentor as her admirer. With a final burst of determination, Tiffani again reached into her purse, and came out with a long, thick Jeroboam, a sterling-silver cutter, and a box of kitchen matches. Tossing her hair over one shoulder, Tiffani clamped the huge cigar into a corner of her mouth, struck one of the matches, and expertly brought her cigar to life with a series of small puffs and then an enormous, cheek-hollowing drag. She held the strong, aromatic smoke deep in her lungs, inhaling again and again, before fully french inhaling a mouthful of cigar smoke, and contentedly exhaling a double-stream through her nose.
Tiffani placed her cigar between her lips, finally feeling ready to stare down the mysterious man who had caused her so much distress all evening. She turned slowly toward his table. He was gone.
Tiffani would have expected (or perhaps, hoped) to experience a vast feeling of relief. Yet, that was not the case. She had never experienced the sharp pang of disappointment and loss that she was feeling, and had no name for it, no way to describe or explain it. All she knew was that she felt more alone than she had ever felt in her life.
Tiffani gathered up her cigarette case, her lighters and her purse, and slowly headed for the door. She paused briefly at the now-empty table, not knowing why--and noticed a small slip of paper sitting next to the man's empty glass. Not knowing why, she grabbed for the piece of paper, held her breath, and read the neatly-printed words: "See you tomorrow night."
Clutching the paper to her breast, Tiffani sank down into a chair. She couldn't move, couldn't speak, could barely breathe. But, her heart pounding, she finally understood the odd, foreign mix of feelings she'd been experiencing all evening long.
It was love.
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