Cigarettes

My blood flow was ultimately in my head beyond this point. I felt my heartbeat throbbing in my temples, my throat tensing and jaw clenching; even my eyes were unable to move from the pattern of the concrete on the ground. It was one of those moments where you legitimately tell yourself to act casual, but there was no room for it. I had been cornered by a thorough gaze. We surpassed “casual” the moment you computed my vulnerability with your eyes alone. “Casual” left my vocabulary, and acting it was, of course, was no such thing.

I raised my cigarette to my lip, inhaling not only the rich, toxic smoke but profoundly taking in the moment. I never wanted to forget this feeling of exhilaration. I knew with every bit of experience in my twenty-three years that it was a heavy rarity to come across someone you have no knowledge of that could induce an instant hysteria in your own mind with just a glance. I wanted to feel every bit of it, and explore the sense of unknowingness that was you looking at me, and me looking at you.

I wanted to know how you sounded. More substantially, I wanted you to speak to me. The way in which you stood, one leg planted firmly beneath you, retaining all of your weight, the other leg loosely wrapped around the opposite, all while leaning against the building beside you, possessed such a poise yet a contradicting blasé attitude toward your surroundings. I only imagined the firmness that might’ve protruded from your tone. I wanted to hear you speak to me with such a tone.

I thought maybe I should talk to him. Or maybe I should wait for him to talk to me. Or maybe I shouldn’t talk to him at all; let this moment be this moment for what it is and remember it that way. What was there to say? Hello, I saw you right there and I haven’t experienced such an exciting moment since I was a child; mind if we chat? There was nothing to say.

To my own avail, I lifted my gaze at perfect timing to watch you shift from your current position to another— toward me. I pretended not to notice, rapidly looking elsewhere, anywhere but you. The distance between us shortened, each step aligned with the up and down beats of the seconds passing. I longed so deeply to look up and find you in my clear view right in front of me leaned up against the wall, foot planted firmly on the ground and the other wrapped around the opposite just as they both were a second ago. The only thing that moved in front of me, however, was the scent left behind in the breeze that brushed against my face; you walked passed me. It was almost exactly like the feeling of getting-to-the good-part, where you are in such a deep state of sleep that all of the sights you watch and actions you feel in your dreams feel completely and utterly like reality. You’re about to kiss the person of your dreams, or you’re only a few feet away from a pot of gold, or you’re about to meet your favorite celebrity, all only to be awaken at the point where you thought you were so close— the good part. So close you could touch it, smell it. And with your scent you disappeared into the front doors of the apartment complex.

This went on for a few days longer. I found myself chain smoking cigarettes to catch another glimpse of you outside, propped up against that spot. I started to feel a sense of lunacy, being at this point I was strengthening a bad habit just to maybe gain a slight chance at seeing you and to feel the bliss of the silent exchange of glances we gave each other that night. Then I gave it a second thought, that maybe my habit became you, and the cigarettes were just a tie-in, an excuse, if you will. I even went as far as to completely dismiss the fact my balcony that extended from my apartment was more than accessible, and completely an option to waste away at my lungs when I feigned for it. But instead, I always chose a quick elevator trip down to the lobby and straight outside to count on the hope of you being where I left you last.

Then came the day I had almost given up— given up on trying to muster the courage to talk to you, if I could even find you, that was. I had almost convinced myself you were a figment of my imagination, and maybe our exchange was something my subconscious was longing for and I had completely made the whole thing up. But it wasn’t until a few days after, around nine o’clock at night, I took the aged elevator down to the lobby to fit my last cigarette of the evening in. Through the front doors I exited out into the brisk March night. It was at the point of the month where winter just couldn’t seem to get over itself; when everyone else was wishing it farewell but it continued to leave its whereabouts among us all with temperatures of sixty-five during the day but dropping down to thirty-eight during the evening. This was the time of year where I felt I could find a friend in the season, a friend I could really relate to. The swift breeze caught me at the nape of my neck, a sudden chill carrying down my body. There was the winter, unabashed, unforgiving, and most of all, present.

I didn’t even realize you were standing there in your spot, leaned up against that wall, shuffling through a pack of Newports. What had finally captured my attention is when a quiet yet stern exclamation of damnit fell from your mouth. I spun in your direction to see you, fidgeting in your pockets only to become disappointed shortly after. You asked me if I had a lighter, to which I joked that I did but my mother always told me not to give my lighters away to strangers. You laughed timidly, it was reaching towards artificial. But to see a faint preview of your smile, suddenly added a healing factor to my crippled, smoke-filled lungs.