An Empty Pack of Cigarettes
The empty pack of aromatic cigarettes, the one I had bought during my last trip to Konstantinople, was left on the small side table of the living room.
In the ashtray, filter ends mixed with ashes and cigarette butts, and the sweet smell of tobacco.
In my mouth, the bitter taste of our separation mixed with the alcohol and bitterness of our life together that had ended.
In the kitchen the dirty dishes from our last meal together.
One plate, two forks, two glasses.
Even that day we had eaten as always, since the days we were crazy for each other, from one plate.
Then, you got up, put on your jacket, you kissed me tenderly on the forehead but without the passion I knew and after you left the keys of the house on the table, you opened the door and walked out.
I remained on the sofa until I smoked the whole pack.
Then, I got up, turned the living room lights off, took the ashtray and emptied it in the garbage bin and went upstairs to sleep.
The next day I had to find out who was going to Constantinople to bring me another pack of cigarettes.
I liked these cigarettes.
I liked them a lot.
