I know it’s bad for me, but I cannot stop smoking.
I love the click, faint-whoosh of the lighter, the first sharp intake of breath that allows the dried brown tobacco leaves to burn that familiar fluorescent orange. Every breath that follows takes me home, to that cozy nicotine-scented smoky embrace that is my peace of mind… for at least seven minutes.
Then it’s reduced to ashes, butt thrown to the ground, crushed under a stomp of my foot, or violently pushed, headfirst, in with the rest of my earlier cigarette flings, killing the amber glow, leaving only the sad, deformed remains of filter. Destroyed.
It’s a seven-minute love affair, between me and my Marlboro of the moment.
I love a dangerous love. Every breath is sure to damage me. And yet, once one stick is done with, I pick up another, just as easily as I did the first, and finish it off just as surely. The next one, eagerly awaiting its turn.
Mechanical, methodical, easy come, easy go.
It is unrequited love, definitely, between it and I. But I get what I need, so I don’t mind. I could do with this the rest of my life.
Click, swoosh, inhale, exhale, inhale, exhale, kill. Repeat.
It’s so easy to deal with, my relationship with Reds. I give it a light, and it gives me satisfaction.
Now if only everything in life was just as easy.