Cigarette

The moment he sees her, he realises that there's something different about her.

There she is, oblivious to the world- which, by the way, fades away when his eyes first lock onto her- in a red dress that hug her slight curves just so. She's seated sideways at the bar, her legs crossed elegantly; her right foot, encased in a sky high contraption, that he can only assume is a shoe, taps out a rhythm on her left shin.

She's not drinking, he realises. At least, nothing alcoholic. He's been friends with enough drunks and bartenders to recognise something alcoholic when he sees it.

Her head rests on her right palm, her face is tilted so the lights fall so perfectly, she glows. Her dark eyes are looking at something so far away; that he suspects not even the Hubble telescope could ever see it.

She picks up her drink- not quite quaffing it, yet not sipping it daintily- and a drop falls on her leg, just below the knee. He cannot quite look away as it finds a path down her leg.

Her left hand darts out, catching the drop a split second before it would have streaked onto her shoe. He half expects her to lick the drop off her finger, but he smiles when she dabs her finger on a napkin. She's been surprising him all evening.

That's when he notices a thin white cigarette dangling between the fore finger and middle finger of her right hand. He quirks an eyebrow, curious. That seems to be a break from character.

But then, he realises, it's not lit.

Author's Note: Critique more welcome than Santa on Christmas Eve!

This is a break from character for me. I haven't ever written about anyone other than me, my muse and the inhabitants of Potterverse. Except, now I have.