.make you dance.

 "Can I just be?" Rus asked me.
I was about to say no. It would hit her hard, it would smother her. I could eat up the amount of words she'd spent, sounding boards and riffing ---- riff and drift. That's all the sentimentality needed.
 What of grifters?
  Where there's smoke...
 "Oh, my stars. You don't say much, do you?" she said, earth quaking underfoot, her lilted stammer barely audible above the rumble.
  Sounds and sentiment.
  "Don't get deep on me now, Rus."
  And it shut her up.
  The way times were spent, recreated ear to tend to memory's bend...
       Here we go again, it's time to cry, time to defend.
 
   Always up on high horses in public, we shadow dancers. I'd come to the street looking for a depressing repeat of all I'd long since longed to forget - there's no more rent. I vacuum the station floors once a week, mean streets.
   Do a sweep --- I comb these floors for cigarettes.

   "Where are those bloody cigarettes?" I hollered out, not really waiting for someone to answer.
   "Ugh," she scoffs at me. "Really? You only care about your damn cigs!" There was venom dripping down each word. I felt like dying --- not literally of course, but she made it feel literal all the damn time!
   I found them, though, under the couch, must've fallen down or kicked under. I walk out the door, hearing her yell after me. The whole neighbourhood can hear you, love, I thought.
   Though the whole neighbourhood wouldn't care. I doubted the guys next door would even flinch, they heard this stuff all the time. My lighter flickered and then the dancing flame disappeared. I tried again but there was nothing but a spark. Spark. Spark. Spark. I whacked the lighter against my palm.
  "Come on". She returned and flirted her heat with my cigarette, turning the tip to ash as the thick air passed down my throat. I exhaled and watched the smoke hang heavy in the cold winter air, wishing he was here with me.
     Every time I smoked, I couldn't hep but consider the irony. I spent most of my time working cleaning up the damn things, cursing the people who just throw 'em on the ground. At least I get rid of 'em properly, I'd congratulate afterwards.
     I started the habit when I was just fifteen. When my parents found out, they threatened to kick me out of the house, but settled for a month grounding. So, I'd smoke at my casual job, or the school oval.
     I wished everyone would just let me be.
     I finished my round of the durry-riddled station upon seeing the break of day. I saw the dust dance  through a ray of light, as I was swallowed out into the city again.
     The city is always littered, I internally grumbled.
     I kicked a can and watched the last remaining stars fade away. The light killed their twinkle slowly and they were nothing.
     The cigs, the darkness, the warmth of the flickering lighter, was all I had left to hold. This job and my actual employment are becoming intertwined. The occupation is smoking and my job is to clean floors. There is something indifferent about this sterile behaviour.
     I'm quitting my job, it's time to continue smoking somewhere else, hopefully no one would notice until I was completely gone, then I'd have enough time to move onto the next job.
     They can't find me, they won't find me.