She Never Dates Smokers

      "'S a bad habit," I say through the screen door.  John's standing on the back porch in the rain, smoking.

      "It's not a habit," he chuckles without turning around.  In the dark the only thing I can see is his outline, and the orange glow of his cigarette.  I can smell the rain and feel the cold wafting in through the screen door, mingling with the ashen smell of the smoke drifting in the night air.

      I push open the screen and close it gently behind me.  It creaks a little as it settles back into the wooden door frame.       

      "What is it then?" I ask, joining him in leaning against the porch railing.

      "A pastime." John laughs.

      A fat raindrop splats on the crown of my head, and I glance up in contempt.  The sleeves of my sweatshirt are already soaked through from resting against the wooden railing, and my bare feet are freezing, drowning in wet pools of denim formed by the cuffs of my jeans.

      "She must really like you," I tell him, resting my chin on my arm and looking up at the dark figure of his face.

      "What's that supposed to mean?"

      "She never dates smokers.  As a rule."

      He doesn't say anything, just takes another long drag on that cigarette and blows the smoke out through his nostrils slowly, thoughtfully.  He doesn't bring it back up to his lips; instead he holds it gently between his fingers and rests his hand on the railing.  It sits there smoldering, a trail of gray smoke drifting upwards in a delicate, twisting path.

      "What're you doing out here?" John asks suddenly, his voice sharp and crisp in the frigid night. 

      Startled, I let out my breath in a whoosh of air, and it puffs before me in a white cloud.  I tear my eyes from the mesmerizing blue-gray smoke and look up  to meet his; they're a piercing blue-green in the daylight, but now they are only dark shadows, hidden in the hollows of his nose.

      I shrug and look away, my gaze wandering into the inky darkness of the back half of our property.  "Dunno.  It's nice out here."

      "Hmph!" John snorts in disbelief.  He looks down at his soggy tee-shirt and then finally lifts the cigarette up to his lips, inhales slowly with an almost loving look on his face.
 
      The rain is roaring on the metal roof of the house, clattering like a thousand ping-pong balls falling from the sky.  From there it tumbles down the grooves of the roofing and crashes to the deck below in tiny, cascading rivulets.  I can hear the muted sound of the rain splatting against the kitchen windows behind me, the dull thud of the drops being absorbed by the dry ground on the grass below.  Somewhere in the eastern corner of the property a hundred frogs are singing, rejoicing in the first rain of the year.  Their voices rise above the rush of the rain and tinkle like tiny brass bells.

      "Your mom doesn't pay much attention to you kids, does she?"

      "Who, Rachel?" I shrug. "She's fine.  I mean, she's never around, but...she's great."

      John laughs and ruffles my wet hair. "'At's the way, kid.  Turn the other cheek." He takes one last drag on the cigarette and blows the smoke into the night air, then grinds the end of it into a pool of water on the deck railing.  It hisses menacingly, and then John tosses it over the railing and onto the wet ground beneath us.

      "Just pretend like she's doing her job, and look the other way when she isn't."

      I frown. "Rachel's great.  I mean..."

      "Yeah, she is, isn't she?" John laughs to himself once more, nods at me, and then clumps across the deck and into the house.  I hear the screen bang shut behind him, and his heavy footsteps recede down the hall and into his and Rachel's bedroom.  That door shuts too, and then all is silent except for the rain and the frogs.