Mary had a little cigarette in her bedroom. She opened the window to let out the smoke and smell and gazed out at the fields beyond at the trees and the rooks in the air. She held the cigarette between her finger and thumb, trying to avoid staining her fingers as her da had with his continued smoking. She inhaled. Exhaled. Thought of Paul on the school sports field at lunchtime, tried to bring his image from her mind, project him on the bed behind her. She failed the bed remained clear and tidy, with the smell in the room of her mother’s polish everywhere drowning any trace of smoke or fumes. She sighed. Even on the school bus home, she could see Paul but not be near him; his friends surrounded him, but he did look over at her a few times, that was something she supposed. She peered down into the garden; her mother was bringing in the washing from the line, a cigarette hanging from her lower lip, her hair drawn back into a harsh bun at the back. Mary moved back from the window in case her mother saw her, beckoned her down to help with the ironing. She sat down on the bed, held the cigarette in front of her eyes, studying the smoke rise upward in a steady line. Ruby could make smoke rings. Ruby was Peter’s sister and her best friend. She’d learned a lot from Ruby: about boys, smoking, sex. Things I’d never had thought of, she mused, laying back on the bed, drawing deeply on the cigarette, trying to make smoke rings like Ruby did. Ruby’s brother Peter was Paul’s best friend; he was always hanging around with him, like some bloody shadow, she muttered to herself. The smoke rings failed. She sighed. Ruby had stopped over a month or so ago for a few days in the holidays; shared her bed. What talk we had; Mother of God would be enough to make Da blush, she mused, releasing a small smile. Things she showed me, about my body and other related matters. She closed her eyes. Exhaled. Sniffed. She sat up and walked to the window. Her mother had gone. She pushed open the window, threw out the cigarette butt. It fell amongst the bedding flowers; a small line of smoke rose then stopped. If only she could have Paul here now, have him in her arms away from the eyes of his friends and others. Just she and he kissing, he doing to her what Ruby had showed her to do. But he wasn’t. Just the statue of the Virgin, the small painting of the Sacred Heart and the wooden crucifix her mother had her da nail to the wall above her bed with the plaster Christ peering down at her sadly while she slept or sat and smoked. She wondered if the Crucified could see in the dark; whether He saw her and Ruby the month before. She crossed herself out of habit, gazed at the painting of the Sacred Heart, wished it was Paul’s image there staring at her with the blue deep eyes, pointing to his heart with his own fine finger with that smile he had that shot waves of desire through her flesh.