She wished she still smoked cigarettes.

She wished she still smoked cigarettes so she could sit up late into the night, typing away on her computer, one foot up on the chair, chin resting on her bent knee, two fingers stained yellow from the hours of holding smoky stubs, while she wrote. Beside her computer, a half-empty packet of cigarettes would sit open next to an overflowing ashtray. Without looking away from what she is doing she puts out her cigarette and starts re-reading what she wrote. Halfway through she pulls out a cigarette from the packet and puts it in the corner of her mouth, blindly her hand feels around for a lighter. Taking a long first drag she holds in the smoke, breathing suspended, before slowly blowing it out as she comes to the end of what she just wrote. Sitting back in her chair she takes another drag and stretches her hands up to the ceiling, leaning her head into the cup of her bent elbow, letting out a contented stream of smoke. Scratching the back of her head she takes one more drag before squashing her half smoked cigarette into the ashtray and closing her computer.