Her smoky eyes Cian Doyle HER smoky e y e s Cian Doyle Ovi ebooks are available in Ovi/Ovi eBookshelves pages and they are for free. If somebody tries to sell you an Ovi book please contact us immediately. For details, contact: ovimagazine@yahoo.com No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior permission of the writer or the above publisher of this book An Ovi eBooks Publication 2025 Ovi eBookPublications - All material is copyright of the Ovi eBooks Publications & the writer C Her smoky eyes Her smoky eyes Cian Doyle Cian Doyle An Ovi eBooks Publication 2025 Ovi eBookPublications - All material is copyright of the Ovi eBooks Publications & the writer C Her smoky eyes I t was a Thursday night , and the world outside was asleep, or pretending to be. Inside the tiny, cramped apartment of Vincent, a poet who’d written more about loneliness than love, the air was thick with smoke and whiskey. The walls, stained yellow from years of cigarette butts and half-empty bottles, seemed to close in on him. His fingers hovered over the typewriter, but the words weren’t coming. They hadn’t been for days, weeks, maybe even months. Vincent had given up on his dream a long time ago. The days of hopeful, romantic verses filled with yearning had been replaced with stale words, like the ashes in the ashtray he kept beside him. His mind had become a desert, cracked and empty, but the ache in his chest never disappeared. Cian Doyle That’s when she walked in. The door didn’t open softly, nor did she. She wasn’t someone who needed an invitation; she barged in with the kind of energy that only a chain-smoker could have. Her name was Annie, though she didn’t introduce herself. She didn’t need to. Everyone knew Annie. Her heels clacked on the hardwood floor like they were trying to wake him from his stupor. Vincent looked up, annoyed at the interruption but too tired to care. She had that look, sharp eyes, sharp tongue, and a cigarette that never seemed to leave her lips. “You writing again?” Her voice was raspy, like someone who had lived too many years in a smoky bar and hadn’t paid a dime for it. Vincent didn’t answer. He wasn’t in the mood for small talk. “Don’t bother,” she continued, dropping her bag on the chair and plopping down beside him. “I know you’re not writing. You haven’t been for a while. I can smell it.” He lit another cigarette and exhaled the smoke, wondering how long he could pretend he didn’t want Her smoky eyes her gone. Her eyes followed his every move like a hawk, but she wasn’t judging him. At least, not in the way most people would. “You’re a mess, you know that?” she said with a grin that made his stomach churn and his heart skip. “I’m a poet,” he muttered, “I’m supposed to be a mess.” “You’re not a poet,” she said, pointing at his typewriter like it was a crime scene. “You’re just a guy with a machine and a lack of anything meaningful to say. So why don’t you write about that? How about ‘The Death of a Poet’? Could be your magnum opus.” She took a drag from her cigarette, eyes narrowing. “Or ‘The Last Cigarette Before It All Goes to Shit’ a bestseller, for sure.” He laughed, bitterly. “You’re a real piece of work, you know that?” “And you’re a real bore, Vincent. Same thing every day. Drinking, smoking, and pretending you’re still a poet. But you’re not. You’re just waiting for the next bottle to finish you off.” She was right, of course. But there was something in the way she said it raw, honest, almost brutal, that Cian Doyle made him want to keep her around. Maybe it was because she didn’t pretend to be anything she wasn’t. “Why are you here?” Vincent asked, his voice low, almost defeated. “I came to see if the rumors were true,” she said, taking a long drag from her cigarette and watching him through a haze of smoke. “The poet, alone in his apartment, slowly sinking into mediocrity. I wanted to see if you were worth the story, or if you’re just another washed-up hack waiting to be forgotten.” She was relentless, and it pissed him off, but there was something else there, too ...something about her that made him want to get to the bottom of her. * * * * * The bottle sat on the corner of the table, half- empty, as it always was. Vincent took another swig, the liquid burning his throat as it slid down to join the mess already brewing in his gut. He flicked the ash from his cigarette, the tip glowing red as the smoke curled up toward the ceiling like some kind of sad, silent prayer. The apartment was as cramped as his soul, and just as dark. The flicker of the neon sign outside was the only thing keeping him from going completely blind. Her smoky eyes The typewriter sat there too, mocking him. It hadn’t heard a word from him in days. Weeks, maybe. He wasn’t sure anymore. The keys felt foreign now. His fingers ached when he tried to type. Not from overuse, but from underuse, as though the machine itself had given up on him. It wasn’t like he hadn’t tried. He used to burn through pages like a wild animal on fire, but that was before the world had knocked the teeth out of him, before the booze, before the constant haze of smoke in the air and the pressure of being a writer in a world that didn’t give a damn. He leaned back in his chair, staring at the ceiling like it owed him something. It was the same goddamn cycle every day, wake up, drink, smoke, avoid people, avoid the world. He wasn’t some kind of tortured artist anymore, no, that had long since been replaced with plain, ordinary exhaustion. He had nothing left to give. No words. No hope. Nothing. And then the door slammed open. She didn’t knock, never did. The air seemed to change when she walked in. She was the kind of Cian Doyle person who didn’t need an invitation, she just made herself at home. “Still not writing?” Annie’s voice broke through the fog in his mind like a knife through butter. Her eyes scanned the room like a hawk, taking everything in with that sharp, judgmental gaze of hers. It didn’t matter that she didn’t know him, or that he hadn’t asked for her opinion. She was going to give it anyway, whether he liked it or not. Vincent looked up, eyes bloodshot, barely able to focus on her. She had that look, one part annoyance, two parts hunger, and a touch of something darker. And that cigarette, always in her hand, burning away as if it could somehow cleanse her soul. Or maybe just burn through it entirely. “Yeah,” he muttered, his voice scratchy, “I’m not writing.” Annie grinned, sitting down without being asked. She always did that. It was as if she owned the place. And hell, maybe she did. Maybe she owned everything. “Why not?” She leaned back in the chair, kicking her legs up onto the table like she had nothing better to do. Her smoky eyes “Because I got nothing left to say,” he answered, exhaling smoke, staring out the window. The city stretched out in front of him, dark and lifeless. Just like him. Her laugh was short and sharp. “That’s bullshit, Vincent. You’ve got plenty to say, you’re just too much of a coward to say it.” Vincent’s heart skipped. It wasn’t the first time she’d called him a coward, but it was the first time he felt the words stick. Something about the way she said it. Like she knew him better than he knew himself. “You don’t know shit about me,” he snapped, already feeling the heat rising in his chest. God, how he hated her sometimes. “Oh, I know enough,” she said, her voice lowering, something dangerous creeping into her tone. “You hide behind your typewriter, your cigarettes, and your booze, but all you’re really doing is waiting to die. You’re just waiting for it to come, and you’re too scared to do anything about it. That’s pathetic.” Vincent stood up abruptly, the chair scraping against the floor. His fists clenched, but he didn’t know what to do with them. He was angry ...no, Cian Doyle furious, but that didn’t feel like the right emotion. It was a strange mix of shame and rage. “You don’t get to talk to me like that,” he said, his voice thick with the kind of venom that only a person who’d been ignored for far too long could muster. Annie stood, too, the air between them suddenly charged with something far more dangerous than words. She wasn’t backing down. That fire inside her wasn’t going to be extinguished by anything. “I’ll talk to you however I want,” she said, her eyes flashing. She took a drag from her cigarette, the smoke swirling around them, thick and suffocating. “You think you’re some tortured artist, some goddamn genius, but you’re not. You’re just a lazy drunk. You’re wasting your life, Vincent.” Vincent’s face reddened, the words hitting him harder than any punch ever could. “You don’t know a goddamn thing about me,” he growled, taking a step toward her, his anger boiling over. “I know enough to see through your bullshit,” she shot back. “You’ve been living in this hole for years, and what do you have to show for it? Nothing but empty bottles and broken dreams. You’re a coward.” Her smoky eyes And then she slapped him. The sound of it was deafening. His head snapped to the side, the sting from her palm burning across his face. He didn’t know whether to feel anger or surprise. He stood there, blinking, the world spinning a little too fast for him to make sense of it. The silence that followed was thick and suffocating. He could hear his heart pounding in his ears. Her chest was rising and falling, her breath coming fast, her fists clenched by her sides. The cigarette dangled loosely from her fingers as she stared at him, her eyes wide with something else now—fear, maybe. Or something more. Maybe it was just the adrenaline. Vincent didn’t know what to do. The slap still burned on his cheek, but it wasn’t the physical pain that was getting to him, it was the weight of her words. “You’re not the man you think you are,” she said, her voice quieter now, shaking a little, but not from regret. From something else. Something deep. Vincent couldn’t respond. He didn’t know how. He wasn’t sure if he was angry or broken or both. “Do you think I’m a coward?” he asked, his voice softer now, almost fragile. Cian Doyle Annie didn’t answer right away. She just stood there, the smoke rising from her cigarette, the tension between them thick and crackling. Her eyes were on him, and it felt like she was looking right through him. Finally, she took a long drag and blew the smoke out slowly, like she had all the time in the world. “Yeah,” she said, “I think you are.” And then, without another word, she walked out, leaving him standing there, the room spinning and his cheek still burning from her slap. Vincent stood there, his fingers shaking as he reached for the bottle. He didn’t drink. Not yet. Not now. He didn’t even know what to feel. Maybe it was just the booze talking. Maybe it was just the smoke. Maybe it was her. But for the first time in a long time, he didn’t feel alone. He didn’t feel like he was waiting for death. He didn’t feel like a coward. At least, not for now. * * * * * Vincent hadn’t seen Annie in months. The kind Her smoky eyes of months that bled into years, where time lost its meaning like an old man’s memory. The bar where he drank had changed names three times in the last year, but he still found his way there, stumbling, aching, chasing the ghosts of things he couldn’t name. He didn’t look for her. She wasn’t a thing to be found anymore, she was a fact, something that had passed through his life like a wrecking ball and left nothing but rubble behind. He didn’t miss her. Not in the way you miss someone you love. It was more like the absence of something you didn’t know you needed. Like the chair you sit in, the one that’s comfortable, that fits you, even if you don’t always notice it until it’s gone. He was at the same table again, like always. The same cigarette, the same bottle of bourbon, the same stain on the floor from where he’d dropped his drink last week. The world outside was dark, the streets empty except for the sounds of footsteps too far away to mean anything. And then, she walked in. Vincent’s heart did a slow somersault in his chest. His eyes went straight to her, like a moth to a dying light. Cian Doyle Annie. She was different. The fire in her eyes had dimmed, like a streetlight flickering out just before dawn. The sharpness in her voice was gone, replaced with something softer, more tired. More like him. She stood in the doorway for a second, like she wasn’t sure if she should even be there. Her clothes hung off her, loose and worn, the same cigarette dangling from her lips. She looked like she hadn’t had a decent meal in days, like she’d been living off whatever scraps she could find to keep her from falling apart. Vincent didn’t say anything. He just watched. She walked to the bar, ordered a drink, and didn’t even glance his way. She used to come in, toss her head back, like she owned the place, but not anymore. Not now. Now, she was just another person, just another face lost in a city full of ghosts. But he knew. He knew exactly why she was there. She wasn’t there for him. Not for the writer, not for the poet, not for any of the bullshit he used to think she cared about. She was there because she was out of options, like everybody else. Vincent’s fingers curled around the edge of his Her smoky eyes glass, the ice cubes clinking against the sides, almost like they were mocking him. He could feel the ache in his chest like it was carving its way into him, deep and slow. Finally, she turned around and saw him. Her eyes widened just a little, like she hadn’t expected him to be there. And maybe she hadn’t. Maybe she had been running from the wreckage of her own life, just like him. She didn’t smile. Didn’t wave. Just nodded and made her way over to his table, the sound of her footsteps the only thing keeping him from spiraling. “Vincent.” Her voice cracked on the first syllable, like it had been waiting too long to be heard. It sounded raw, unfinished, like she hadn’t spoken to anyone in days. Weeks, maybe. He grunted in response. He didn’t know what else to say. What could he say? “How’ve you been?” she asked, but the question hung there, meaningless. There was no way to answer it without getting lost in the lie of it. He wasn’t fine. She wasn’t fine. And neither of them would ever be fine again. Cian Doyle “Same old,” he muttered, taking a long drag from his cigarette. The ash fell in a steady stream, disappearing into the air like everything else they had both tried to escape. There was silence between them now, a space that neither of them knew how to fill. The old rhythm that used to buzz between them, fighting, fucking, drinking, shouting, was gone. Nothing was left but the wreckage. “Why’d you leave?” he finally asked, his voice low, but sharp enough to cut through the space. He didn’t look at her when he said it. Didn’t want to. It didn’t matter why. He already knew. She closed her eyes for a moment, like the answer was too heavy, like it was too much to carry. When she opened them again, there was no fire. No anger. Just a quiet resignation. “I couldn’t stay,” she said. Her voice was flat, empty of all the things that used to make it dangerous. “You were right, you know. About me. About everything.” He didn’t respond. Didn’t need to. She was right. She had always been right, in a way he couldn’t admit when it mattered. Her smoky eyes “You left without a word,” he said instead, his voice brittle. “You didn’t even...” “I know,” she interrupted, and for a second, it looked like she might cry. But she didn’t. She just took a long drag from her cigarette, the smoke curling around her face like it was trying to hold onto something that was already gone. They sat there for a while, the noise of the bar fading into the background, just the two of them, the only sounds the scraping of their chairs and the quiet rhythm of their hearts. Finally, she stood up, her chair scraping against the floor. The sound was so loud, it almost felt like a gunshot. She didn’t look at him when she turned to leave. “You know,” she said, pausing for a moment, her back still turned, “I used to think you were the one. The one who’d save me from everything. But I was wrong.” Vincent didn’t say anything. He couldn’t. The words wouldn’t come. They never did when it mattered. She didn’t look back. She just walked out, the door slamming behind her with a finality that felt like the Cian Doyle closing of a chapter... no, more like the closing of a whole goddamn book. Vincent sat there for a long time after she left, the glass in front of him untouched. His cigarette burned itself out in the ashtray, the end glowing red before it died. The truth was, he hadn’t changed. Not really. He was still the same old fool he’d been when she first slapped him across the face. And she hadn’t changed either. She’d just stopped pretending to be something she wasn’t. Maybe they were both just too tired to keep lying. The world outside was still the same cold, indifferent, full of people who were too busy living their own messes to care about anyone else’s. But for the first time in a long time, Vincent wasn’t sure if that was a curse or a blessing. He reached for the bottle again, but it felt too heavy. He put it down. Instead, he grabbed the cigarette pack, popped one in, and lit it. Maybe tomorrow he’d write. Maybe tomorrow he’d finally say something real.