[center][i]“the meteorite is the source of the light
And the meteor's just what we see
And the meteoroid is a stone that's devoid of the fire that propelled it to thee.”

-Joanna Newsom, “Emily”[/i][/center]

Absentmindedly rolling the near-spent cigarette in between her thumb and index finger, Ophelia left cracked sneaker prints in the loose soil, which gradually transitioned to the greyish-green color only Northern California sand could boast. A straggler, seemingly determined to reach the organized chaos of the mingling teens, passed her in a swift stride, and Ophelia nearly called out in greeting before her throat snatched her back to the safety of her cigarette. 

One stray wisp of smoke, twisting upon itself into the seaweed scented breeze. 

Ophelia was raising the cigarette to her lips in one last, hasty inhale when, finally within sight of the teens milling around by the dock, she made eye contact with a woman only a few years older than herself but, unmistakably, stomach-droppingly, bearing the confidence of someone who was in charge. Their gaze held for a beat longer than Ophelia was comfortable with.

She realized the cigarette was still in her hand. 

[i]Oh, shit–[/i]

In a frantic dance of movement, Ophelia let the cigarette fall to the cool sand and attempted to cover it in as much unremarkable detritus as she could. Despite her efforts to make the disposal of the cigarette as casual as possible, she knew it was useless– a juvenile attempt at best. With a grimace, Ophelia recalled the time her parents had returned from the movies early, leaving her thirteen year old self trying to flush a barely-spent cigarette down the toilet while clumsily masking the ashy smell that clung to her hair and skin. She hadn’t been punished, but she had been incredibly embarrassed. Apparently, getting caught smoking still brought back that familiar childlike shame, Ophelia realized as she tried to catch someone else’s eye, anyone but the older woman’s. 

Fantastic first impression.