Recalling first impressions,

Like the cigarette smoke languidly drifting from her lips,

Ephemeral wisps

Reflected in a pair of

Bright eyes, beckoning

To share a private exchange.

Within the surrounding chatter

Their conversation flows freely 

As the hours slip by

And they are alone in the back garden,

Sipping another round,

Passing the joint between them,

His smoke now mingling with hers

And crafting an ambiance,

Wherein

There rests the possibility of building something  

On this fragile foundation of a chance meeting,

Even if such expectations often prove misguided,

Leading to nothing

More substantial

Than the evaporating smoke.

Originally published in Door Is a Jar.

Image: public domain.