The mysterious boy with a cigarette

Fine art by Malcom T. Liepke

Fine art by Malcom T. Liepke

The sky painted itself like the strokes Van Gogh at its finest, an ombre of oranges and purples, it couldn’t have been anymore magnificent.

He tucked his tussled rough curls behind his ear as he drew the Marlboro pack out of his ripped smeared denims, his hands working them out as if it were an art that required greatest of his attention. He arched his eyebrows stretching his right eye while crinkling his forehead, once again his hair fell out of place, delicately  falling over his eyes. Eyes that spoke the language of intensity, narrowed and sharp, darkest of the browns and the most royal gaze.

Drawing a cigarette from the pack, he carefully placed it in between his fingers, sucking in the raw nicotine, as the lighter flared up, burning the cigarettes half way across its peak. He then, withdrew the cigarette, paused, threw his head back in anticipation and finally let go. His squared jaw awashed in the cloud of smoke, he opened his eyes to reveal a totally different aura than his usual rigid self, an aura of utter and reluctant evil joy.

He was there, standing, distant, in his own little heaven, temporary little heaven, of sedation. Conspicuously spying on this beautiful creature, I stood amongst the crowd, thinking to myself, how can a bad boy like him notice a girl like me, I was in love.

Just as he took another round of his daily nicotine abuse, he paused. His long eyelashes slowly flickered from here and there until his eyes met mine. The intensity burned through them, overwhelming me. My spine was in jitters and my blood begun to fly like butterflies. I immediately looked away, embarrassed at this very encounter of souls. He clearly saw mine. I, however, was unable to decipher his mysteries. The mysteries of his past that chisled him into who he was today, rugged.

I wondered in the depths of my heart, oh dear lord, does this young man posses a heart not as dark as the brown of his eyes but as soft as his smile. Bewilderment overwhelmed me and somehow I longed to capture him somehow, somewhere. A photograph would not have ever been enough to capture the enormity, the serenity of his world. His soul. This is what scared me, how my world was so little compared to his, how my thoughts could never match the pace of his growing imagination, how I was so insufficient to satisfy his desire.
The way he looked into my eyes, I felt a sense of belonging but at the same time I knew how incompatible we were. I guess, I, found him with pure serendipity.

As my thoughts flared, he strutted towards me, the bid of the cigarette still dangling from his lips, clasped between his teeth. I was indeed petrified, the way he seemed to glare right through every corner of my soul, I felt as if I had been stripped of my clothes. This was the damage he could do. This is how he belittled me. Mother always said “Hun, if a boy races your heart instead of giving you warmth, he’s not the one. He’s the wrong one disguised as a hard lesson, always remember that.” I decided to take the hard lesson anyway.

Written by Fizza Zain