Missing the party

She did that great thing; that thing where you flick the tobacco off your lower lip, using your thumb and your pointer finger. She loved that move.

She looked across at him, at the slackness beneath his chin, at the whiskers he'd missed at the corner of his mouth.

"I fucking hate you," she thought.

She inhaled deeply on the cigarette, felt it heat her lungs, fill them up like a microwave and a popcorn bag. Little black kernels probably lay at the bottom of her lung, like they do in every shitty popcorn bag.

"So you'll miss the party then, if you go I mean. You won't be coming to the party."

"Yeah I'll miss the party. No big deal is it?"

"S'pose not. I was organising it for you though."