Into the Fire

Prelude

She could make smoking a cigarette look elegant, seductive . . . and dangerous even. Chic. Cool. And somehow romantic. Of course she could make anything look good. She appeared taller than she was, standing flat-footed at maybe 5’ 7”. It was probably the shoes. Often those very high skinny heels somehow lifting that lithe, narrow frame. I saw her in the summertime out there against the building with her cigarette, her skin nearly bronze and not one bit unnaturally enhanced. Standing there in the rain of late winter under the generous overhang, well, leaning really, against the coarse white brick of the building, it was almost the color of ivory. So fair. I wondered how she didn’t burn in the summer sun. On the one occasion when I saw her smile in the last year, her teeth were a dazzling white—right out of a toothpaste commercial or a mailer ad from a dentist for the new Zoom 2 whitening method. No smoker’s stain on those pearly whites.

Anyway . . .

That’s basically how the whole thing began. By casually, unintentionally, watching her smoke . . .

Father, you provide it all. Apart from you, I can do nothing. In the Name of Jesus, Amen.