I search my pockets for cigarettes and matches I have not carried in twenty-three years.
Overcome, out of nowhere, with a desire for a nicotine hit, for something to do when I can do nothing, for smoking's little rituals and superstitions.
Smack the pack on your palm before opening. The Lucky Cigarette to be turned backwards and to be smoked last. Never buy or a receive as a gift a red Bic lighter.
If I had been raised Catholic might have prayed the rosary, said a Hail Mary, crossed myself after I finished praying. What the ritual is doesn't matter. It only matters that you have one.
Have no cigarettes now, I fidget and my excitable mind makes litanies of profanity and rage, and I can't stop the fears filling my mind, now the all consuming rage blotting out all of the light and remnants of love.
I remember, equally unbidden, my first taste of a romantic love, on a school trip. A dark haired girl a year older than me, so seemingly sophisticated and worldly compared to a hayseed like me.
Fine and soft clothes, and an aristocratic air. She smoked expensive clove cigarettes. They left a sweet taste on her lips when we kissed.
I hope the angel that takes me out of this world and to seem hoped for paradise, had that taste on their lips.
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