Free Ten Stories About Smoking by Stuart Evers

terribly with these shoes.’ He smiled, quickly. Jean was quietly disarmed.
    She introduced herself and they talked about work. Jean made spiteful comments about her colleagues, pointing out their indiscretions and unpleasant habits. He laughed and sipped at his wine,
commenting where it seemed appropriate. When there was no one left to dissect, Jean suggested that they leave the party, discreetly and separately, and reconvene in the car park. She went first and
Peter finished his wine, wondering whether she would still be there in five minutes’ time.
    The car park was deserted and she stood by a wooden fence, talking on her telephone. Her summer dress exposed her legs, her wedge espadrilles making her look taller, a lazy gust of wind
fingering her hair. As he walked towards her Peter buttoned up his jacket, then unbuttoned it. When she noticed him she ended her call and told him she knew of a restaurant nearby: it
wouldn’t take long to walk. She linked her arm with his and they chatted about how strange it was that they had not met before.
    They ate outside a Spanish place, picking at fish and meats in tiny terracotta bowls. Jean did most of the talking, and he listened intently, his head leant on his fist, his maroon tie loosened
and splayed. Around them it got dark; couples left and arrived. They drank a lot of wine and told their own little stories. He spoke with a slight drawl to his accent that might have been Irish or
Scottish. She liked it whichever country it was. When the bill arrived, they split it and he did not suggest a nightcap, nor did she invite him to her flat for a coffee. Instead they kissed as it
started to rain, two cabs arriving within minutes of each other. They had each other’s numbers and that itching feeling that something had imperceptibly changed.

    Over the weeks, she bought Peter medicated shampoo and took him shopping. He went along without argument, enjoying the attention. She took him to her favourite salon where her
stylist gave him a haircut he initially eyed with suspicion, but later came to like. It wasn’t quite a transformation, more a remodelling. Every day he thanked her, even though sometimes she
was unsure what she was supposed to have done.
    Jean read up about night terrors, but didn’t discuss her research with Peter. Whenever sleep was mentioned, she felt him stiffen and so she let it go. At his flat, a high-ceilinged place
in Edgbaston, she would select CDs at random from his collection and listen to them while he cooked. She had heard of almost none of the artists and she was surprised at how fragile and brittle the
singers and recordings sounded – like people trapped on another planet. She liked that he had passions and enthusiasms she did not share, the faded, slightly bohemian feel to the place, the
framed prints that hung on every wall.
    It didn’t matter whether they stayed at her place or his, the night terrors kept him awake most nights – despite her early attempts to wear him out with vigorous lovemaking. After an
attack he would remove himself from the bed and go to the bathroom. There he would wash his face, brush his teeth, shave, then head into the lounge and watch television. He’d pour himself a
drink or two and return later to the cooling bed, his body fresh with the smell of cosmetics and the alcohol.
    They went on several holidays together, and were introduced to each other’s parents. The meetings were stiff and formal, though Jean’s father and Peter bonded over a shared love of
the Suffolk coastline. The two of them would sit in high, winged chairs and discuss with animation the towns of Aldeburgh and Southwold; they spoke of family holidays in cottages and caravans, the
bitter taste of Adnams ale. It was on one such occasion, after a simple lunch and before their planned walk, that Jean realized she was going to marry him. Her first marriage had been agonized
over, pinched and prodded until she was sure she was doing the