The Cigarette After

Beatrice Lilly Dungstone sat in a lurch, sideways on the seat of the parked company car that provided her transport. Her swollen edema ridden legs dangled short of the ground. With the door ajar, I stood over her, hoping for an end to her convulsive snorts on a lit cigarette. Her savory pucks could have convinced me it was the last cigarette in the carton.

Bending a bushy eyebrow, Beatrice longingly asked, “Will you still be my case manager after you find me that apartment to live in?”

“No. I will have to transfer you to another case manager. I do not have that type of a caseload.”

The cigarette dangled now in her mouth as she jawed. She exhaled plume. ”That is awesome news!”

“What do you mean?” I questioned with trailing rejection. “I did not expect you to get out tissues and cry but I thought we were getting along famously.”

“That is just it. I like you too much, Joe.” A sweet spot activated the makings of Beatrice's flawed smile. “Since you won’t be my case manager in the future, that’ll remove almost all conflict of interest between us. If you are willing to take off your wedding ring for a few hours, I would like to invite you over for a dinner for two.”

I tried to salvage an air of professionalism in the heat of the moment. “There will be none of that. I think you are puffing prematurely on that cigarette, young lady.”