She Did A Lot Of (Acid)

"There's this church near my house, one of those tall warm ones with elaborate windows that spreads out for a block; that's always filled with tame sparse people and organ music. I sit on the steps a lot, cigarette dangling from my fingers; I sit there a lot waiting for him, or for things to get good or glorious. They're broad and stone and in the spring they are cold against the back of my legs."
"And life is like a cigarette hanging from my fingers; it'll burn out and I'll drop it and people will walk over it in the street and some of the people from the church will be annoyed that I left it there, in front of their building."

So she stood up and ground out her cigarette and flicked it away. Those fingers of hers, that sick surety and yearning of them... something about their casual gesture after the words she'd just spoken seemed to me horribly cruel, and I wished I would say something to check her.