The Coldest Night

Hannah walked through the heavy doors. The cloying, artificial warmth that had enveloped her was pushed back by the biting wind that rushed
forward in greeting. She was under the care of the elements now and shuddered. Keeping close to the wall for shelter she walked a few yards to the designated place.

She rummaged in her pocket and brought out a packet of ten menthols and a lighter. She’d convinced herself that menthols weren’t as bad. She shook a cigarette out of the packet and held it between her trembling lips. Her hand shook with the cold as she lit up, cupping the lighter hand.

It was a bitterly cold November night. She cursed the nicotine addiction that had forced her out of the warmth into the night's cruelty. It was the coldest night of the year so far, frosty and bitter but beautifully clear. It was just turned ten o'clock and everything was quiet. The odd car moved slowly out of the car park and a person here and there went about their business.

Two young women, in sensible black shoes passed her, then it was peaceful and quiet. She looked up and the sky took her breath away.

It wasn’t quite black but three shades from it, the richest, darkest blue-purple that nature had in her palette.

The residual smell of sulphur from a thousand dancing fireworks was but a memory for another year and the focal point in the sky was the waning
crescent moon, ragged with the promise of heavier frost before morning. The creamy white-grey hue around the moon's edge was smudged by nature's
finger to merge away into the indigo sky. The stars had been dropped carelessly by a great, big, hand, to land in a random scatter.

It was breathtaking.

Hannah pulled hard on her cigarette, trying not to get emotional.

She’d tried to give up smoking, but the lure was always just that bit too strong to turn her back on. In times of trouble,tobacco was her best friend. It was a constant in her life, guaranteed
to make her feel better, to calm, to soothe, to seduce her mind into believing that all would turn out well.

She took the final two rapid draws on the cigarette and allowed the smoke to ghost down her
sinuses and into her lungs. She could feel the weight of it there as she held her breath. If smoke is weightless, she wondered, how can the feeling of density bouncing around in my lungs be explained?

She allowed the smoke back up. It billowed from her mouth and nose, mixing with her breath in the frosty air. She stubbed the butt out under her slipper and then bent to tidy up her mess, putting the filtered tip into the bin beside her. A man walked by, he glanced briefly in her direction. She coloured and felt ridiculous.

She wondered if the man wondered about her, and smirked. It reminded her of the dream where she’s at the Royal Ballet, stark naked.

She looked down and felt silly out in the cold night air in just her night-clothes. It empowered her feeling that it was unreal. None of this was happening to her and she’d wake up in the morning grumbling at the alarm clock.

Her gaze followed the length of her towelling dressing gown and she looked at her left breast. She had looked at it a lot over the last two weeks, touched it, felt it, probed it with
her fingers; others had probed it with theirs.

A tear rolled down her ice-cold cheek and she said ‘Goodbye boob, it’s been nice knowing you.’

Hannah turned and walked back into the warmth of the hospital.