It was almost eleven when, after an excessively large dinner, she decided the best thing to do was get some fresh air. She felt as round as a full moon and swore the dessert had been a sugary betrayal. She went out onto the balcony with her cigarette—just one, to “balance the universe,” as she put it—and gazed at the dark, thick, and silent night.

The wind ruffled her hair and stirred her thoughts as well. Her stomach protested with a small, indiscreet growl, reminding her that gluttony always comes at a price. She let out a soft laugh. “Okay, okay, I get it,” she murmured.

She went back inside, tidied up, and returned to the balcony. In one hand she held the cigarette, and in the other she tore off some pieces that she smelled and tasted to her heart’s content. She held it between her fingers, hesitating for barely a second. The house across the street had its lights off, but she knew that someone got up early there every morning.

With a mischievous smile, she tossed everything away like someone throwing a secret to the wind. It fell exactly where she wanted. Tomorrow, when the sun woke the neighborhood, someone would find it and smell its daring scent, a scent of mystery and sleeplessness.

She returned to her chair, took the last drag, and smiled contentedly. Sometimes, she thought, the night needs nothing more than a small act of daring to become unforgettable.

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