Cigarette - Piccolo

He took one out. It was absurdly thin, a sliver of paper and tobacco rolled with European precision. Between his calloused fingers, it looked like a toy. The lighter’s flame hesitated for a second before catching the tip.

The box was the color of old bone, small enough to hide in the cup of a palm. The name sounded like a forgotten musical term, something delicate and high-pitched, meant for a solo no one else could hear. piccolo cigarette

He smoked it in three quick breaths. The filter warmed, then went cold. It was over before the thought was complete. He crushed the tiny ember into a steel ashtray, where it left a black kiss the size of a pencil dot. He took one out