The camera frames Alexis from the waist up, her torso filling the center of the sh*t. She wears a shirt covered in colorful butterflies, the fabric dipping low to show the swell of her cleavage, the bright wings spread across her chest in frozen flight. She never gets undressed. The butterflies stay on, watching with her.

She holds a fresh pack of cigarettes, the cellophane catching the light. Her eyes find the lens and hold there as her fingers peel the wrapper free, the crinkle of plastic the only sound. She taps the pack, slides the foil away, exposes the white rows beneath.

One cigarette slides free. She places it between her lips, the filter resting there, unlit. She reaches for a match, she strikes it.

The flame blooms orange, casting her face in sudden warmth, making the butterflies on her shirt shift and flicker. She holds the match steady, brings it to the tip, inhales. The tobacco catches. Her cheeks hollow. She holds the smoke, her chest expanding beneath the butterflies, then leans forward and bl*ws it out in a thick cloud toward the lens.

The smoke billows, gray and deliberate. When it clears, she is still watching, the cigarette held delicately between two fingers, smoke rising. She brings it back to her lips, inhales deeper, her eyes never leaving yours. She holds the smoke, lets it build, then opens her mouth slightly and lets it escape in a slow stream.

She dangles the cigarette from her lower lip, both hands free. The butterflies shift with her breathing, the fabric pulling across her chest. The cigarette bobs, ash lengthening. She catches it, brings it back for another drag, bl*ws the smoke directly at the camera. It whites out the screen, and when it fades she has shifted closer, her face larger in the frame, the colorful wings still bright through the haze.

She inhales again, cheeks hollowing, the ember eating down the paper. She leans in closer, until her face fills the frame, the butterflies at the edge of view, and exhales directly toward you. The smoke spreads across the lens, makes her a ghost behind it, a smudge of dark hair and pale skin and bright fabric and the orange point of the cigarette.

When it clears, she is smiling around the filter. She takes another long, slow drag, lets the cigarette dangle again, smoke curling upward past her eyes. She does not blink. She does not look away. She sits there, smoking for you, the butterflies bright against her chest, the ash growing, her eyes holding yours through the haze.

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