Short story: Smoke

Ben locked the door and looked around. The shed smelled of raw autumn. Julie hated autumns. They reminded her of the coming frost.

“Last smoke,” he thought slowly. “Yeah. Why not.”

The damp match would not light. Ben was in no hurry. Julie would ignite. Matches were supposed to light at once. Old newspapers were supposed to be thrown away. Husbands were supposed to provide. She would ignite.

But she needn’t worry. Not any longer. Ben was ready. So was the rope.

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