The smoke curls out of my mouth and drifts lazily toward the sky. I remember my first cigarette. The mountains seemed to hide my new secret, but the echoes of my sputtering coughs rang quite clearly.
I never really picked up the habit, as some do. Sometimes one is all it takes, but for me, I could take it or leave it. It became a placebo to me – a mindless activity that gave me the façade of calm. I still coughed. Everybody looked at me like I was out of place, that a nicotine addiction just wasn’t my game. Maybe it wasn’t.
Now, smoking goes along with another vice of mine: drinking. The two go hand and hand, and I always find myself running outside to join the rest of the smokers when a smoke break has been called.
Out here, alone now, I know that both of these habits are probably doing their best to kill me. And I don’t really mind.
(163 words)
1 comment:
There's something matter-of-fact and almost wistful about this piece. As usual, you totally get the slay with the last line. You managed to encompass so much about this character's life in so little space, and I dig it. A lot. Also, two vices in one? Rock and roll.
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