She used to be a smoker. She’d light up her menthol cigarette in the morning before she even made her coffee. She’d inhale before she’d eat, after she’d eat. I often wondered if it was like a comfort food, or if it was something more ritualistic and irrational. I remember watching her puff, looking forward at nothing, and wondered what things were going on in her mind. What was she feeling? Was she daydreaming about all the things she could have done different if given the chance? If so, would she? Would she drink a little less? Would she choose me again?
She’d try to quit a couple times, never really made it past hour 6. She had this look of relief, yet pain when she’d light up again. Although the pained look was quickly replaced with content. She had these lips where the top was a little fuller then the bottom. They tasted like ash when she’d kiss me. Everytime. Sometime’s I used to wish I could have been one of her smokes. Hard to put down, hard to quit. I was anything but.