Written using the Freewrite Writing Prompt by the one and only 
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She found herself longing for a cigarette, which was odd as she never really smoked. Not even as a rebellious teen.
And she had hated it when Steve smoked. She had given him hell about it for years.
But here she was standing alone by the cemetery gates and the only thing she could think was, "God, I could kill for a cigarette."
Perhaps it was a learned response. Something she had drummed into her by all the detective tv series she watched. Whenever the hero was in a tough spot or felt stressed they'd turn to either tobacco or alcohol.
Or - more likely - both.
But she couldn't drink. Not anymore.
Not after the last time.
A couple approached her, dressed in black, the woman looking as if she had been crying, the man looking as though he was trying not to.
I wonder if they are here for the same funeral, she thought. Probably. It was a small cemetery.
How many funerals could there be at this time?
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