She was like nicotine, he thought, exhaling a grey cloud of smoke as he hesitated on the front step.
She left traces of herself on his breath, stained his skin and refused to be scrubbed out. He could tell himself he was quitting, and for a while he’d be fine – then the cravings would start, that deep ache inside his chest like someone had excavated a hole right through it, the insistent nagging urge at the back of his mind.
He stubbed out his cigarette on the red brickwork, knocked on her door, and felt the cycle begin anew.
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