The Smoker

The air was still damp from last nights’ rain. Wet soles of Steve’s shoes were leaving its mark on the concrete slab of the pavement. Steve crushed the burnt-out butt of cigarette under his feet; the hissing noise of the smoldering cylinder was drowned by the howling of the wind. There went the last remaining cigarette for the day and if his resolution held any grounds, the final one of his entire life as well.

The decision to quit smoking had been quite heavy on him. Though he had been continually reducing his smoking spree for a couple of months now, it sure made him flinch this day parting ways with the only friend that never left his side throughout his rough and bumpy life.

He would not have quit if not for the warning by his physician, which coupled with the long runs of coughs over the past six months didn’t leave any doubts over what would happen if he didn’t take care of himself in time.

Already his hands were reaching for the non-existent cigarette in his overcoats’ inside pocket. His lips were cupped in a way that suggested having been habitual to the same-old-cylinder between them. The last cigarette already felt like an eon ago.

The chilly air was drawing out sharp and short breaths from him. The exhaled breaths precipitating in the air looked so much like smoke. He remembered the smoke-rings that he used to make with practiced perfection. He fondly recalled how he could blow the smoke out in spirals to the awe of his smoking peers. For him, it wasn’t just the inhalation that mattered; exhalation gave him equal pleasure. He smiled as he was reminded of how the smoke would come billowing out of his nose. It used to give him the sense of invincibility. Now his lungs filled with cold air, how he longed for the caressing touch of smoke on its walls.

Life would be harder now. There will no longer be a pack of ‘Camel’ in his pockets or that archaic lighter. He won’t be able to exhale his worries with the spent smoke-filled breaths. A white piece of cylinder, so small yet so strong a companion. How it gives itself away to the human desire, reduced to an inch long survival; that too to be crushed under the mighty heels. Suddenly, Steve felt guilt for trampling that last cigarette butt under his feet. It sure deserved more respect than that.

So deep was he in his thoughts that he didn’t even realize that he walked right past the gas-station where he always bought cigarettes. The owner knew him so well that every time Steve entered, he would automatically place a cigarette packet atop the counter. Well, not today.

And as he distanced himself from the shop, the awestruck owner was squinting hard from inside the shop. A cigarette packet lay on the top of the counter and a smoldering butt was smothering on the pavement at a distance.