She walked down the street. She wasn’t too sure what to do with herself. All she knew was, it was too cold for her hands. The skin of her hands like rose petals left in a jar of oil but perhaps too long or else not long enough either way not right because now they were coloured only by pale veins robbed by the scent meant to preserve.
She walked down the street. Each step as if she meant it more than the previous.
Anyone who saw her would have had not doubt thinking: now there goes a woman with some place to go and not to happy about it either. This was exactly true. She was sick of it. She wanted to smack winter right across the face with a stick. Send the bastard running home with a broken nose both eyes soon to blacken full of tears. Really knock enough sense into him so he’d never over stay again.
She walked through the doorway. Oak and glass door swung freely. Easily she pushed on the well polished despite the weather brass handles. She entered on the chime of invisible bells. Tiny silvery bells as the door opened and once again as it swung shut behind her. The aroma was wonderful – instinctively she took a deep breath exhaling an audible ahh. She knew she was in the right place. The air was a thing to be savoured, a rich mouth watering sensation not stopping there but spread warm and tangible into finger tips, hairs on the back of her neck ending up with a gentle but distinct thump in her heart.
She stood at the glass counter. It too was oak trimmed with brass. It took only a moment for the tobacconist to turn and greet her. She had expected him to be older than he was. She had expected him to be smiling, sparkling grey or maybe blue eyes dancing with fragments of reflected light behind the gold wire frame glasses – and he was. She thought he must be one of the last of his kind. Sadly shops like this would soon be a thing of the past. But that was the way of it, all is transitory. She smiled back at him. Asked him for what she came for.
Cigarette tobacco. No particular brand but none of that light stuff. Something full strength. Something from Holland. For some reason the Dutch always had a knack for good tobacco. Even these days when cigarettes were reduced to being the hot dog of the smoking world – basically whatever was swept up off the factory floor. It was only the stuff from the Dutch still had value. Since she was obviously going to have to use tobacco it might as well be the best. She was happy with the forty grams halfzware shag it really was a beautiful long rich blend. She was happy enough with the shop keeper and their little exchange of pleasantries. He had agreed with her completely and commiserated briefly with her, concerning the demise of quality pre-rolled cigarettes and the awful state of the weather He even had those thin rice papers. The kind you could almost see through. The kind of cigarette paper made for tobacco not for the appeasement of those hippie pot heads.
Overall she was quite happy she came to this shop. .. No not happy she thought. Not happy at all. That bastard. That incompetent dilly dally winter bastard.. Oh she was going to show him. She was going to fix him but good for driving her nuts.