Smoke - Grace Clarke

Smoke

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When she says, wanna turn around, it will take a moment to realize that she’s asking you to stay outside longer. You gaze at the lit windows of the hotel and imagine people on the other side, the rest of your friends at the bar trying to get the distracted bartender’s attention. Maybe one is wondering when you will join them, but the night air and city smells lure you back to the moment.

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You make your way back up the street that you just finished strolling. A young couple passes arm in arm, drunken and blissful. Music rolls from the distance, from multiple sources: a trumpet playing a wistful melody, electronic beats pulsing from a discotheque.  A light breeze carries the buttery aroma from a nearby bistro.

 

You walk past the two homeless men with the Pit Bull, who shout that they know you, and secretly, you relish being remembered. She breaks the silence by asking how you feel about going home. You say you don’t want to talk about that but somehow end up talking instead about the night your parents announced their divorce.  A familiar restlessness creeps into your body. You feel tipsy from the wine earlier.  But when she draws a pack of cigarettes from her bag, you tense with anticipation.

 

It’s a delicate matter - lighting someone else’s cigarette – and you feel the responsibility as she hands you the lighter.  She inhales, then exhales quickly, and though it will be your turn next, you don’t want to appear greedy.  The cigarette balances between your index and middle fingers. You bend slightly while raising one hand to your lips, watching the lighter fight against the breeze.  The tip glows orange, the smoke that hits your tongue not yet a taste. 

 

You think how difficult it is to explain smoking to someone who has never tried it. You feel light, filled with air. It almost feels like cheating, like it should be illegal, how a single breath brings such happiness—even when there’s that PSA voice in the back of your mind saying, This is what kills you one day. Down the street, the techno beats dwindle. The breeze slips past you into the night. When she smiles, you smile back, holding the smoke in your mouth as long as you can before letting it go.