Smoke Screen

She dashed around the house. She was in the kitchen, then up on the landing and in the bathroom in under 15 seconds, sprinting like a runner.
“Keys.” she screamed at her husband. He rocked their infant son, looked at her a little dazed.
“Where are you taking off to?” he asked.
She tore at her hair.  And once again she tossed cushions in the air and peered behind them.
“Well?” her husband said standing beside her.
“I need some things from the supermarket,” she told him, emptying her handbag on the floor. “Oh alright, I’ll go, I’ve my keys,” he replied.
“You do?  Where?” Her eyes shone as her head jerked up to focus on him.
“Pocket.” He twitched his hip. She patted his pockets and triumphant tinkled the keys. She kissed their infant son on the forehead and grabbed her handbag. Not waiting to gather up the contents she had tipped on the floor before heading for the door. She hurled herself into her husband’s car, shaking as she rooted the keys into the ignition.
She leaned low over the steering wheel, searching for a suitable spot to stop.  Gasping as she opened the door. She unzipped the compartment in her handbag. Her hand trembled as she ripped out her lighter and a packet of cigarettes. Calmer already she placed a cigarette in her mouth and lit it. Sighing with relief as the drag took hold she leant her head on the steering wheel.  She really should give these up.