Black, Gold, and Cigarettes

Matteo shivered in his jacket as he lit his cigarette. According to his itinerary, he had four minutes to make it to his seat for Christian Dior’s show, one of several must cover shows of the week. His wallet loved the income his New York Fashion Week posts would bring, but the smoker side of him hated these cold, gray February weeks every year.

How much would it hurt the organizers to add an extra ten minutes to the breaks between shows so he could relax as he smoked, instead of inhaling until he choked and still having to leave a good drag or two left on the cigarette before running off to the next show? They probably did it on purpose to encourage them to quit nicotine. But smokers were made of stronger stuff than that.

Like this young woman, who had a Fashion Week badge around her neck like he did, walking up wearing a loose black long-sleeved shirt, gold leggings, and black leather riding boots. He normally wasn’t a leggings fan, but considering how these ones accentuated her shapely legs, he could understand the appeal. The only problem with her look was how could she walk outside without a jacket? It made him shiver harder just looking at her. While his teeth chattered, hers stayed firm as she smiled and held up a quarter.

“Can I buy a cigarette off you for twenty-five cents?” she asked. She hadn’t left him much of a choice, had she? Smoker’s karma and all that. He sighed and tapped a cigarette out of his pack. “Keep your quarter. Here.”

“Thank you,” she said and clapped her hands before taking it. He wanted to roll his eyes, but instead found himself flicking his lighter and holding it up so she could lean forward and inhale. Her eyelids trembled, and she paused for just a moment before leaning back and opening her eyes.

He knew that feeling all too well. Nothing felt better than that first inhale, and the larger the gap between the cigarettes, the better that first hit felt. It was like sex. But unlike sex, he didn’t need another person to get that feeling as many times a day as he wanted. He coughed and shook his head. Best to derail those kinds of thoughts now. The woman in front of him only wanted cigarettes.

“There’s a stand a couple blocks away you can buy them at,” he said.

“I don’t have time. The schedules are crazy this year. I do have to say, though, you’re more of a gentleman than I anticipated,” she said. She must have read his blog. Some people called his brutally honest fashion reviews unnecessarily cruel and tended to think that somehow carried over into his face-to-face interactions.

To a point, it did; if he thought you looked like crap and you asked his opinion, he would tell you. However, that didn’t mean he wouldn’t help a fellow smoker out. Still, her words stung.

“Is there a particular article you enjoyed?” he asked.

“Article?”

“From my blog,” he said as she took a drag. She arched an eyebrow and slowly exhaled the smoke. A delaying strategy. He braced himself for criticism and waited for her to finish emptying and refilling her lungs.

“I read one of your posts. You came off as a bit of a dickweed, so I didn’t bother reading more.”

“One’s work does not equal the person behind it,” he said in a sharper tone than he meant to.

“You’re right, it doesn’t.” She didn’t raise her voice or get in his face, just narrowed her eyes and tapped her ash in the space between them.

It made him swallow and take a drag on his cigarette to steady his nerves. The smoke turned acrid as it touched the filter. He dropped his spent cigarette in the receptacle.

“What’s your name?” he asked.

She tilted her head with a half-smile at him and turned her badge around so the back faced him. Interesting. He must have given her a bad review at one point, which would explain her attitude towards his articles. He squared his shoulders and crossed his arms, but that just made that smile of hers creep upwards. It made him hard.

“I’m Matteo.”

“I know.”

“Right, yeah. Um, look, I think you’re fascinating, and I would like to -- ”

“I have a show starting in about two hours. Stage three. If you still find me fascinating, meet me back here with a cigarette ten minutes after it ends,” she said and took a final drag. He nodded. He knew without checking his watch or itinerary that he was running late to catch Dior’s show. Whatever. These things never started on time anyways.

He would probably have to stand in the back and afterward check another journalist’s pictures to cobble some kind of review post together. It was worth it, though, to watch this woman’s fingers slide her ashed cigarette into the receptacle. And as she walked away towards the back entrance only designers and models could use, he realized the glorious things leggings did to a woman’s ass.

The door clicked shut behind her, ending the spell cast over him by her leggings. He started shivering again. When had he stopped? Didn’t matter. He had someplace he needed to be. He started running. While she had access to the special entrance in the back, he had to go around and through the front of the building. By the time he got to Dior’s show, each breath seared his lungs, and his legs wobbled. All the seats were taken, and the models had already started walking.

He leaned against the wall to catch his breath. Animal and paisley prints came down the runway in flowing bohemian style. Nothing caught his eye like she had. Why hadn’t she given him her name? There was an easy way to figure it out. Who had a show in two hours on stage three?

Madelaine Karan. The itinerary fluttered to the ground. He knew that designer, and not for a good reason. He’d reviewed her fall collection last summer, a dull, oversized mishmash of unflattering and, ultimately, unwearable clothes. It’d been a polarizing piece, garnering the most engagements (and death threats) out of any post he had done the year before.

Was she worth sitting through another version of that?

His dick twitched. Shaking his head, he picked up the dropped itinerary. It would be good to see Madelaine Karan’s show. His readers would like a follow-up piece on her latest collection. They would demand it, more than hearing his opinions on what Dior had sent down the runway.

Speaking of Dior, the final showstopping piece came out: a monochromatic dress with strong lines. As he’d expect from Dior, but that was the problem, wasn’t it? There hadn’t been anything new, anything exciting. Maybe he’d feel different when he looked at those pictures later, but he doubted it.

He slipped out and made his way to stage three. Ten minutes until Madelaine’s show started. He normally would go and have a cigarette while he waited, but he didn’t want to risk standing in the back as he’d just done for Dior. So he sat and opened his phone to do some social media stalking.

She’d never replied to his article, and soon found out she’d made no mention of it on Twitter, Facebook, TikTok, Instagram, or any other platform he could think of. The closest he’d found was a tweet where she said, “My Spring Collection debuting at New York Fashion Week (!!!) is centered around armor and protecting yourself from the haters in the world.”

He swallowed and locked his phone. That couldn’t refer to him. How large would his ego have to be to think she’d design a collection based on words he’d said? Maybe she hadn’t even read the article. No, she’d known who he was when she’d offered to buy a cigarette with a quarter.

She’d said nothing.

The rest of the seats filled. He exchanged nods, waves, and hellos with other journalists and designers he’d met in previous years. People’s chatting voices buzzed in the air as they waited. The start time according to the itinerary has passed. Then a minute. And another. These things always started late, but never before had it made him cross his arms and bounce his knees while checking the time on his phone every few seconds.

Finally, the house lights dimmed. Heavy snare drums coming through the speakers beat out a brisk one, two, three, four as the first model came down the runway. She wore black head to toe with a leather vest over a turtleneck that had elongated sleeves and neck. He tapped his chin.

The next model had a black half helmet covering her hair, with an even more exaggerated neck on the turtleneck. No leather this time, but still black. The third model also wore an identical half helmet and had a completely black form-fitting look, with a square neck and leather armbands.

Was this the same designer he had reviewed last year?

Normally, he would say he wanted a pop of color to break up all the black, but not this time. The leather did a good enough job making it so the looks didn’t blend together. That was a good line. He opened his phone and typed it down.

Then a model wearing an oversized cream hood over a grey top and black leather pants walked out. His eyes widened, and he erased the words he’d just written. And then the next one had the same hood attached to an entire lush coat. Is that when he fell in love? He leaned forward, ready to devour whatever surprise came next down the runway.

A black halter dress--half leather, half cloth--paired with black leggings and a half helmet; an oversized gray coat that somehow wrapped around the neck, so you had no need for a scarf that opened to reveal a dark grey dress; a black coat that stayed shut; black leather pants and a black top with an oversized gray overshirt with cutouts.

Then the finale: A black sweetheart gown with a ruffled skirt and a leather bodice with a strap lying over one shoulder.

The models all came back out to showcase the entire collection with Madelaine at the end. While everyone stood and clapped, he turned and pushed his way to the exit. As much as he wanted to applaud the woman who had shown Dior up, he only had ten minutes to get an appropriate offering. Flowers typically did the job as both an apology and a declaration of feelings.

There were none for sale in Spring Studios, which left him with no alternative but to go to the stand a couple of blocks away and hope they had flowers. He had eight minutes left. He started running. His heart, lungs, and legs did not appreciate this second round of cardio and immediately started burning as a protest.

It took him about three minutes to get there, far too long, and while quitting smoking did enter his head, he immediately shook it away. Now was not the time to consider a lifestyle change. More importantly, the corner stand did not have flowers. He would have to go with something else, something a smoker would consider a far superior offering.

“You alright, man?” the clerk asked.

Matteo nodded and tried to ask for cigarettes, but his words came out as a rasp.

“Take your time. No rush today.”

But he did have to rush. He only had four minutes to make it on time to meet Madelaine, a perfect name for the talented, intriguing, and gorgeous woman he needed to apologize to. Seconds ticked by until the cold air stopped searing the back of his throat.

“Water. And cigarettes,” he finally managed to wheeze out. The clerk scanned a bottle of water and handed it to Matteo. He poured half the bottle down his throat, the almost ice soothed the burn that spread through his chest. The next breath felt almost as good as that first cigarette of the day.

“What kind?” the clerk asked. Matteo could only stare. He hadn’t asked her what kind she preferred. Why would he have? If you were bumming cigarettes, you had to gratefully accept whatever got offered to you. And she’d filled her part perfectly: making no complaint about his reds or sighing wistfully for the kind she preferred. He only had one option, then.

“Two reds, a gold, and a menthol,” he said. The clerk didn’t so much as raise an eyebrow, and Matteo could only assume his cigarette order was not the strangest transaction of the day. Or possibly the hour since this was New York City and all. And speaking of it being New York City…

“Total is forty-six eighty-three.”

“You can’t be serious,” Matteo said, but the math didn’t lie. Shaking his head, Matteo swiped his card and checked the time. Two minutes left. He would be late. She would be too, right? She’d have to be. People always wanted to talk to the designer after a show. The clerk shoved his receipt in the bag and handed it to Matteo. Once he had it clenched in his hands, Matteo started running again.

For this third cardio burst, he ignored the signals and protests sent by his thighs, calves, ankles, toes, blood vessels, heart, chest, lungs, and the rest of his cells. He didn’t ask if the pain was worth it, he just closed his eyes and forced his legs to move faster. He made it to Spring Studios, skirting around the building to the smoking area.

Madeline stood with a cigarette in hand, laughing and surrounded by people congratulating her. He did not waste seconds pausing to breathe. He pushed through and collapsed at her feet. The talk and laughter died. He stared up into her eyes from his knees. Then he pulled out one of the red packs, the gold and menthol ones, and held them up to her.

“Dinner?”

She smiled her half-smile and tilted her head to examine the offered packs.

The other people tittered and whispered: “Isn’t that Matteo, the blogger? You can’t call him a proper journalist. He’s the definition of a troll.”

Sweat slid down his back. None of them mattered to him. Only her, and her nod, and her black-painted fingertips that encircled the gold pack.