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Other Mal story and sketches indexed here.
***** ****** ******
She'd given up smoking on a bet. Sort of.
She'd started in high school with slim Cashman's Lights and less than a fortnight after her first toke she'd spent half her week's allowance on a silver Zippo and her own supply. Style and all the power of attitude multiplied by supply and demand. She graduated brands pretty swiftly as well - less girly, less common, import when she could find them, coloured papers, nifty packaging, brands that matched her outfits sometime; always something a little different from the rest. And the rest did follow, chasing trends like always, until she straight up laughed at Bessy Green who was affecting a cigarette holder, which Mal thought was about the most pretentious thing ever.
By the time she'd left for Europe she'd more or less abandoned regular cigarettes entirely. Her luggage contained two brands of cloves, a small cigarette case that would slide down the side of a boot and that same silver Zippo. She figured she could pick up another rolling machine and papers in any head shop and it wasn't worth risking customs for, especially for an infrequent vice. She learned that clove were harsher in Germany, less sweet and processed than the home brands. That they were strong and smooth in Prague and almost unknown in the UK. She got the lighter engraved in London, a spiky tribal pattern hammered in tiny pits by a guy with dreadlocks to his knees and his tools spread out on a blanket at the edge of the market. She met Guy there too, in that self same market, both of them trying on vintage boots while balanced precariously on milk crates.
They took his new cavalry boots for a test run, dancing till the bouncers swept them out, and then tripping and twirling down deserted side roads under orange street lights, and then finding themselves at the door of his flat, in his room, on his bed, in each others lives, and laughing and kissing and fucking.
Two weeks, and the laughing had mostly turned to clinging and she was starting to think that she wanted out, away from the sickly routine of truly madly obsessively, and she came and she let him finish and she was rolling towards the bag propped up by the side of the bed when his hand settled on her waist and he laughed. That same low sexy chuckle that had caught her, just two weeks before, and when she twisted round, asking what the joke was, he'd said that he knew she was going to do that, loved knowing her so well. He detailed this little dance of fingers and lips and fire and ashtrays which made her furious and trapped, and when he said that he'd bet good money that she couldn't go a day without it, she'd thrown half a packet of Djarum's at him, got dressed and left.
The way she told the story, on the odd occasions when she did, it got rolled together with a trip Italy and a group of them late at night, candlelight and red wine and closeness, daring each other to brave a week in the February damp without their chemical comforts for the good of the music and their livers, the better to enjoy the triumphal return to Florence and the festival proper. It made a better story that way.
***** ****** ******
She'd given up smoking on a bet. Sort of.
She'd started in high school with slim Cashman's Lights and less than a fortnight after her first toke she'd spent half her week's allowance on a silver Zippo and her own supply. Style and all the power of attitude multiplied by supply and demand. She graduated brands pretty swiftly as well - less girly, less common, import when she could find them, coloured papers, nifty packaging, brands that matched her outfits sometime; always something a little different from the rest. And the rest did follow, chasing trends like always, until she straight up laughed at Bessy Green who was affecting a cigarette holder, which Mal thought was about the most pretentious thing ever.
By the time she'd left for Europe she'd more or less abandoned regular cigarettes entirely. Her luggage contained two brands of cloves, a small cigarette case that would slide down the side of a boot and that same silver Zippo. She figured she could pick up another rolling machine and papers in any head shop and it wasn't worth risking customs for, especially for an infrequent vice. She learned that clove were harsher in Germany, less sweet and processed than the home brands. That they were strong and smooth in Prague and almost unknown in the UK. She got the lighter engraved in London, a spiky tribal pattern hammered in tiny pits by a guy with dreadlocks to his knees and his tools spread out on a blanket at the edge of the market. She met Guy there too, in that self same market, both of them trying on vintage boots while balanced precariously on milk crates.
They took his new cavalry boots for a test run, dancing till the bouncers swept them out, and then tripping and twirling down deserted side roads under orange street lights, and then finding themselves at the door of his flat, in his room, on his bed, in each others lives, and laughing and kissing and fucking.
Two weeks, and the laughing had mostly turned to clinging and she was starting to think that she wanted out, away from the sickly routine of truly madly obsessively, and she came and she let him finish and she was rolling towards the bag propped up by the side of the bed when his hand settled on her waist and he laughed. That same low sexy chuckle that had caught her, just two weeks before, and when she twisted round, asking what the joke was, he'd said that he knew she was going to do that, loved knowing her so well. He detailed this little dance of fingers and lips and fire and ashtrays which made her furious and trapped, and when he said that he'd bet good money that she couldn't go a day without it, she'd thrown half a packet of Djarum's at him, got dressed and left.
The way she told the story, on the odd occasions when she did, it got rolled together with a trip Italy and a group of them late at night, candlelight and red wine and closeness, daring each other to brave a week in the February damp without their chemical comforts for the good of the music and their livers, the better to enjoy the triumphal return to Florence and the festival proper. It made a better story that way.
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