It was her first smoke in a long time. She had to bum it from the chubby, gay, barista at the waffle cart down the street where she frequently bought her morning cup when she felt too lazy to make herself a press pot. Sitting on the front stoop of her little two-bedroom, wood framed house from the 1950s, she thought about Kyle as he drove away. She could tell that he'd wanted to cry but he didn't, neither did Flora. She really didn't understand herself why she didn't love this guy. She took a big sip of the coffee and chased it with a good drag of her ciggy.
Flora had lived in this house for over four years. She was at one time, a corporate consultant and had made very good money doing so. She had studied Art History at Evergreen. The consulting job was kind of a fluke. Her aunt was friends with the owner of the company, an Indian man who Flora met at a dinner party at her aunt's house. She new she was done when the TMJ and tension headaches became unbearable. The job was not stressful but she felt like she was wasting away. Now, she was freelance graphic designer.