This Side of Utica: Act I

They sat in silence, side by side in the motorcar as it sped through the empty streets of downtown Utica. With eyes fixed on the pavement ahead, his left hand groped through his breast pocket while his right held steadfast against the wheel. A white package of cigarettes emerged from the folds of fabric; one cigarette clenched between his teeth was lit in a single, fluid motion. He inhaled.
"Put it out," she said. Her voice was hollow.
For ad instant he allowed his eyes to stray over the passenger seat, observing in silence the woman who sat beside him. Her dark tresses held up by pins that were the fashion had begun to fall loose and lay across her shoulders, her head, turned slightly to the right came to rest against her open palm and her eyes, heavily lidded, tok in the last breaths of the sun as it retreated behind the decrepit skyline. It had begun to rain.
"Put it out," she repeated, this time her throat rang with a hint of exasperation.
He inhaled again. Then ever so casually flicking the cigarette out the open window he watched in the rear view mirror as the ember faded into the growing night. With gaze once again fixed on the road his foot weighed heavily against the accelerator while his right hand came to rest on hers. It rained harder. The city shrank.