The Bumps in the Bricks

(Hey guys. This is me trying extremely hard to nail Marta's style. I believe I did alright in a few respects, but I have to admit, I think I was challenged mucho! Feedback, yes? Yes.)

My legs led me to an alley way decorated with graffiti of severed heads and illegible tags. Someone wanted to be rebellious, but decided to remain anonymous.
I traced my finger along the lines, stapled into the bricks with black paint. The cold of the night was enough to send me into a wild twitching fit, so wild, it made me drop my bottle of gin.

“Fuck.”
The sound of my voice startled me and I felt like I had to laugh because I was the only one there and it was necessary to appreciate the moment.

The snow-covered ground was difficult to walk on, particularly the ground harbouring ice patches. The wind flipped my coat tails up repeatedly, but I was too distracted by the blood circulating away from my hands, still tracing the black outline of what appeared to be the word “Coleslaw”.

I let my legs lead once again, as they crushed the broken glass of my lost bottle of gin. (No worries, it was almost empty.) They continued to take me through the alley. My hands found refuge in my coat pockets, fingers each wrapped around an object the pocket contained.

My legs ceased all movement. A single thought sliced through me: cigarettes.

“Cigarettes,” I repeated. I fiddled with the lighter in my pocket and patted my chest for the carton. I retrieved the carton from its position as guardian of my left chest plate and removed one from the box. The cigarette stuck to the moisture of my lips as I struck the lighter many times unsuccessfully until the flame was birthed and my smoking could commence. I let the smoke simmer in my mouth for a little while and exhale, until the stick burned to its filter. I continued walking (home, hopefully), the only idea occupying my mind being the identity of “Coleslaw”.