Amid the flurry of the acacia tree leaves, on the old balcony, stood a woman with her arm resting along the railing and elbow softly bent. She was holding a Zippo lighter, trying to light a cigarette.
With a soft flick, she inhaled deeply, the end of the cigarette burning bright in the night. She held her breath for a moment, then released a plume of smoke; it curled upward as if unsaid thoughts given form.
The Marlboro blue didn't only taste bitter in her mouth; it also emitted a peculiar scent. It smelled of longing and heartache.
A cold breeze swept across the balcony, erasing the traces of a smoky sigh.
Adorned with a white nightgown, the silky fabric billowed in the wind. She looked ethereal, wrapped in a long and softly fluttering diaphanous robe with delicate embroidery of blossoming flowers that complemented her curves.
It was as if it were a lovely portrait of a goddess under the splintered moonlight.
She wasn't smiling and didn't have the inviting look most attractive women possess; instead, she had an air of nonchalance wrapped in grace and a tremulous presence.
Her eyes strayed as she languidly brought the cigarette between her crimson lips. It was noticeable that her seeming boredom was serene, as if she had already experienced a hundred years of life.
Habitually, her slender thumb fiddled with the cold ring on her forefinger while lost in thought. She turned it absentmindedly between thumb and nail, the cheap gold duller than before.
The promise had long lost its warmth. Calling it a treasure is quite absurd, because it's more likely a burdensome accessory.
Nearby rested a half-finished red wine in a wine glass. On the railing, beneath the glass, was a red envelope. Inscribed on the paper was an elegant script:
"Mr. & Mrs. Rhys joyfully request the pleasure of your company at the beginning of their life together.."