With his last cigarette and a hand for the door, it was opened in a usual manner. Closing the door behind him, the latch stuck as it had the few times before. This was a frequent occurrence: to go outside and blow smoke in the midst of thinking.
Taking out his light, he gave it flick. "First time and it's windy." The little games people play in their free time. He walked a familiar path wondering how the gait of a person reflects their personality, past this month's new flowers he had come to appreciate from his wretched habit more than his black-thumbed mother, and around the car in the driveway to the mailbox with the hibiscus flowers around it -- the ones his dog no longer waited to fall before eating.
Then it was to thoughts of her. How little he knew her, and then once more to wishes they had been friends before lovers so this wouldn't have been the case.
"I'll walk 'til you're out," he thought as his rising hand passed through his field of vision, giving him the idea. It was night and his direction had concentrated on the glow of a distant lamppost as though he were a lost sailor and the old-style street light were any deviation from blue. He considered his cigarette and then his tense mood, then knowing the iron beacon was far out of its reach. He continued towards it not thinking of direction, unknowingly walking towards her, and what it would mean.
Narrating his life, he moved ahead. "How many ideas from reflection have been excused from mind, and thus record, in order to maintain the experience of the moment? Or can both be done, and is this the true definition of multitasking?"
Then a breeze began to push at his back as he imagined her. His mind went to the thought that this might be a sign that the two were sharing a moment -- one from many miles away as they had the one night with that breeze of the past. It had been a night with Pall Mall's between fingers that he, as with this present night, had been craving since the morning before in their absence -- The night the wind pushed him inside in an attempt to write and reach to her again.
"Should I think of what to write her or stay in this place of uncertainty?... And so what if the breeze pushes me forth? My cigarette is out and I must return." So as he turned about, the wind gave what little punishment it could in form of subtle but spent resistance. He walked back home trying to keep the idea of writing her out of mind because he did not know whether she, too, was feeling this moment with him; he could not take the chance. "For I am no good at doing many things, especially when it comes to this. And now I do not know whether this moment has been shared."