I haven’t had a cigarette in three weeks. And I miss it. Not in the way a nicotine-deprived individual would give an arm to get even just one puff.
I just miss it.
Standing at the patio outside my room. Tearing the pack’s plastic wrapper. Creating an opening on one of the top corners so I can access a cigarette stick. Hitting the top of the pack against my palm to facilitate its exit. Plucking it from the top of the pack with my thumb and index finger. Lightly clamping on the cigarette stick between my lips.
Lighting it. Taking the first drag. Feeling it travel down my throat, through my windpipe, that first drag permeating into my lungs’ innermost recesses. Holding my breath for a second. Or two. Or probably three.
Savoring the lightness of the moment. Exhaling a straight stream of air admixed with smoke through the narrow opening of my pursed lips.
Taking a second hit. Feeling it descend to my lungs and then ascend to my brain. Taking a third, a fourth, a fifth drag.
Enjoying the calmness of the moment.
Relishing the light buzz in my head as the elements of the cigarette envelop my brain.
Taking a sixth, a seventh, an eighth puff. Flicking the ashes off the lit tip of the cigarette and watching the former fall.
Taking a ninth puff. Dropping the nearly-spent cigarette butt on the ground. Crushing the life out of the damned thing under the sole of my shoe. Fishing the pack of smokes out from my shirt pocket. Hitting the top of the pack against my palm to facilitate ejection of another stick. Picking it out from the window atop the pack with my thumb and index finger. Placing the cigarette stick between my lips.
Setting it ablaze. Taking a fresh drag. Waiting for the low-key yet nonetheless heady buzz to commence.