What Tessa wants is one more cig. Not because she’s out, but because she’s probably going to finish the pack before they show. She has to pace herself, which is a pain.

Tessa kicks a suitcase and wraps her arms under her breasts so she can stick her hands in her pits to warm them. Her gloves are more fashionable than practical, they don’t keep the wind from chewing her fingers pink and ragged.

She dances in place and watches the wind take her breath up the interstate.

They’re not her suitcases, is part of the thing, and the fact the others are running late is another. And out here by the interstate in the mid-20s weather in a skirt, even with leggings, maybe that’s another. And that’s omitting the impending cigarette crisis.

Maybe just one. Her hands cramp working the bic but it finally sparks, light bouncing off her glasses the same hue as the streak in her hair. But it’s not as good as it ought to be because now she’s one cig closer.

But the real bitch is, she doesn’t even get to finish it.