I like to travel, read, write, dance and pretend. At the moment I am suffering an insufferable phase of self-aggrandizement, premature maturity and lack of wit.
If you think you can help me out of this funk, write me at idaman.z@gmail.com
She always smoked when it was cold, and she refused to smoke with the window shut, so we would bundle up in layers of sweaters, coats, scarves, just so she could ignite a cigarette in the dead of winter. She had an amazing conceit that she was a writer, and would pretend to type on her laptop while she smoked, shivering and cursing the cold, snowflakes of ash descending in slow motion onto the alphabets of the keypad. The fumes of her cigarette would hang motionless for a second, and then the smoke would dance in a confused frenzy out the window or into the room, depending on how the wind blew.
Of all the things I loved about her, the whipping curls of her cigarette I cherished the most.
