The car is parked in afternoon shade, the windows cr*cked to let the heat escape. Alexis sits in the driver's seat, the camera propped on the dashboard, framing her from the chest up. She wears a yellow sundress covered in small white flowers, the fabric thin and bright against her skin, thin straps showing her shoulders, the neckline dipping to show her cleavage.

She holds a fresh pack of Capri 120s, the slim white box catching the light. Her addiction shows in the eagerness of her fingers as she peels the seal, taps one cigarette free. It is long, elegant, exaggerated in its slenderness. She places it between her lips, unlit, and looks directly into the lens.

Her eyes hold yours as she reaches for her lighter. The flame blooms, steady, and she brings it to the tip. The first inhale is deep, her cheeks hollowing, the Capri 120 flaring orange. She holds the smoke, lets it build, her green eyes locked on the camera, unblinking.

Then she leans forward, across the steering wheel, and exhales directly at the lens. The smoke billows, thick and gray, filling the frame, obscuring her face, her yellow dress, the flowers. When it clears, she is still watching, the cigarette held delicately between two fingers, smoke rising in a thin column.

She leans back against the headrest, the sundress pulling across her chest, the flowers shifting with her breath. She brings the Capri 120 back to her lips, inhales again, slower this time, savoring. Her eyes never leave yours. She opens her mouth slightly and lets the smoke escape in a slow stream that rises toward the car's ceiling, curls back down, surrounds her in a haze.

She dangles the cigarette from her lower lip, both hands now free to adjust the skirt of her dress, to run one hand through her hair, to trace the flower pattern on her thigh. The Capri 120 bobs with each motion, the ash lengthening, precarious. She catches it, brings it back for another drag, and bl*ws the smoke in your face again, deliberate, the gray cloud traveling the short distance between her lips and the lens, breaking against the glass.

She repeats this rhythm: inhale, hold, lean in, bl*w. Each time her eyes stay locked on yours, challenging, inviting, knowing. The car fills with smoke, the afternoon light turning it gold, the yellow of her dress glowing through the haze. She smokes the Capri 120 down to the filter, her addiction evident in the frequency of her drags, the depth of her inhales, the satisfaction in her eyes each time she exhales.

Near the end, she leans close again, her face filling the frame, the yellow flowers on her dress visible at the edges, and takes one final, long drag. She holds it, cheeks puffed slightly, then opens her mouth and lets the smoke pour out in a thick stream directed at you. It whites out the screen, and when it fades she is smiling, the spent Capri 120 pinched between her fingers, her eyes still holding yours through the haze.

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