Smoky Little Rituals

Smoky Little Rituals

I could almost quit this -- I know it's killing me-- but some part of me loves them, these little cigarettes. I love the sparkle pop when I flick the lighter, the tiny blaze of fire, the sharp crackle of the silky smooth paper as it ignites. The weight, however slight, and the shape as I roll it between my fingers helps me think; it's like some people's worry stones. The taste of the smoke as it rolls into me is sensual, almost sexual combined with the relief in my legs after a hard shift. The silent curls of smoke and the soft sound of the ashes falling into the tray are soothing.

Perhaps I watched to many old movies from when smoking was simply the thing one did. They didn't smoke like we smoke. There was a weight to it, something meaningful hidden in the smoke-filled silence between words. The old actresses, they held their cigarettes like a scepter, the badge of office for a Silver Screen Queen. Hepburn was a master of the nicotine glamour. We aren't allowed to smoke that way anymore; it's not PC. I still try, maybe even succeed at times. Leave me my little rituals, my suicide installment plan. Everything kills you, might as well enjoy what you can.