Temptress Amidst The Smoke

I swung open my office door and was met with a startling sight. Perched on the end of my desk, gazing out of the window sat a red haired vixen, pouting her scarlet lips and drumming her crimson nails against the mahogany woodwork. I’d only been at the corner shop to grab a half pint of milk (green-capped, semi-skimmed) and I’d returned to a fiery temptress, straddling my desk.

“Mr Silverwood, I presume.” Her voice was low and luxurious like a plump, velvet pillow or an extra large bar of Galaxy chocolate.

“Yes?” I answered in a strangled gasp.

“I hope you don’t mind me entering uninvited? There’s a slightly vegetative smell out in the corridor and your office door was unlocked.”

The smell was from a fungal patch growing upside down on the ceiling outside my room. I’d been meaning to scrape it off and throw it out of the window, but I lacked the necessary ladder-based equipment to reach that level of elevation.

“Okay,” I coughed.

The young woman flicked her locks over her shoulder as she rose from the desk. She strode towards me with long, seductive steps and proffered her hand in my direction.

“I’m Tiffany Saint Michaels” she sang.

“Right.” I shook her delicate, almost porcelain hand.

“Do you mind if I smoke?”

“Be my guest,” I replied, wildly ignoring the clear smoking-ban that blankets all public workplaces including my office.

I’m rarely caught off-guard when it comes to women, but Tiffany was so striking that I felt the equivalent of being punched in the kidneys. The strength of her beauty was like receiving a knee to the testicles and then being spat at in the face. I was dumbstruck. It taken a few seconds before I shook off the metaphorical blows to my body and was able to place the half-pinter in my mini fridge. As she looked dreamily out of the window, sucking gently at the cigarette betwixt her white, slender fingers, I couldn’t help thinking about that smoking ban. It was a firm rule that had been reiterated when signing the lease on the office space and I didn’t fancy losing that deposit I’d handed so readily to my landlord.

“You have quite a view from up here,” Tiffany cooed, “I’ve never seen the council estate across town from this angle before.”

“There are many delightful angles to discover in my office, Miss Saint Michaels,” I quipped, upping my game; my eyes fixed on the blue smoke rising towards the ceiling.

“I’m sure there are Mr Silverwood,” she retorted coyly, waving her cigarette in the air. “I’m sure there are.”

I fully understand and support the smoking ban. As a non-smoker myself I can appreciate that the smell of nicotine and tobacco can be repulsive to those who don’t partake in the habit – not to mention the health risks behind second-hand smoke. Tiffany puffing at her death-stick was almost as distracting as her beauty; yet her pure, uncreased complexion would soon fall victim to capillary damage; resulting in poor blood flow, stopping the provision of oxygen and nutrients to her skin. Not to mention the wrinkling process of puckering the mouth each time she took a drag of her cigarette. I acknowledged that although smoking gave her a sexy edge, the fact it was physically aging her was ironic, and I appreciated that irony.

“Allow me to get you an ashtray,” I offered, ever the gentleman.

She thanked me as I rummaged through the dustbin behind my desk and fished out an old foil case from a Cherry Bakewell tart that I’d folded into a little triangle. I carefully unfolded said triangle until it was more-or-less back to its cup shape, ideal for knocking ash into. I made a point of placing the makeshift-ashtray onto the table by saying “This is where you should put your ash from the cigarette you are now smoking”.

“I fear my husband is having an affair Mr Silverwood,” exclaimed Tiffany. “He’s not his usual self in certain... areas of our marriage.”

“I see,” I responded, not really listening but concentrating more on the lengthening strand of ash from the cigarette.

“I fear I need your assistance in the matter Kurt,” she said before taking a long drag, the ash train picking up more and more passengers. “You don’t mind if I call you Kurt, do you?”

“What? Yeah, whatever, sure.” I gestured towards the foil tray on the desk next to her.

She lifted her buxom weight and glided to where I was standing. Every inch of me tensed up and my heart raced as I hoped beyond hope that the grit on the end of her cigarette wouldn’t be knocked off from the kinetic energy created by her movements. It dangled dangerously, hanging onto the red-hot tip for dear life.

“I’m glad we can be informal with each other,” she whispered into my ear, her lips almost touching the skin.

It was as she slinked away that it happened. She idly flicked at the stick in her hand and the column of ash poured over my carpeted flooring like a monsoon from the heavens.

“Oh for Christ’s sake!” I blurted out. “I gave you an ashtray! There!”

I pointed at the bakewell casing, now sitting redundant and useless. It would take a wet cloth and some delicate sponging at the carpet to make sure the ash was all out before my next building inspection.

“I’m sorry Kurt?” Tiffany responded, feigning obliviousness at her obviously obnoxious display.

“Look, I think you’d better leave.”

“What? Why?” she asked, having the cheek to appear outraged by my outburst.

I took the cigarette from her fingers (now barely a filter set alight) and thrown it in my dustbin.

“Just leave.”

I opened the door for her and slammed it shut after she’d crossed the threshold.

After dealing with quite a large fire in my dustbin, caused by throwing Miss Saint Michaels’ lit stub into it (and exacerbated by a scotch bottle I’d dumped in there, unaware there was a small amount of whisky still residing in the bottom), I mocked up a rudimentary no smoking sign and pinned it to my office wall. Most rules are there to be broken (i.e. speed limits, public drinking and illegal gambling) but other rules are there to be adhered to (i.e. smoking bans and prohibited heavy petting in swimming pools).

Kurt Silverwood P.I.