Short Essay 1

"Addicted"

 

Reunited:

 

I was upset. It was after midnight, and he was afraid to pick me up in front of my house on the off chance that someone would see us, so I met him around the corner in my pajamas.  It was the first time I had ever snuck out of my house; I was twenty-six.  Thirteen years can change a person completely.  We were two totally different people than the eighth graders we once knew, but my inner thirteen-year-old was still nervous as hell as she walked to meet him again for the first time.  As I rounded the corner, a tall dark shadow appeared, the only light illuminated from a streetlamp on the corner and the burning end of his cigarette.  "You're a smoker?" I mocked.  He ignored my question and pulled me into his arms first.  "Mhmm."

 

On the porch:

 

His parents were away; I told mine that I was elsewhere.  We sat on wicker furniture as he lit a cigarette and offered it to me.  "You know I don't smoke."  "One cigarette will not kill you or make you an addict."  I took it. "I feel like I should have one of those cigarette holders like Cruella De Vil."  "That would probably be the sexiest thing I've ever seen."  Yeah right, I thought, awkwardly pretending to smoke the cigarette in my hand.  "So I have an important question to ask you," he said.  "Like what?"  He got up and went inside.  It's amazing how long it takes for two minutes to pass.  He came back with two small glasses half-filled with what he called the Don Perignon of ale.  "What's the question?"  "Anxious?"  "A little."  "Relax."  "What's the question?" "Well, you ended an eight year relationship a few months ago. You've had time to let it sink in. Any regrets?" "God, no!" He laughed, "Jesus. That was quick!"

 

On the Phone:

 

Me: So, do you want to know how weird I am?

Him: Sure.

Me: Right now, I'm laying in bed with my head on my hoodie because it smells like you, and I love it.

Him: Mine smells like you and I love it.

Me: Does it?

Him: Yes (he laughed).

Me: What do I smell like?

Him: It's like a light scent of fruitness.

 

I waited for him to ask me what he smelled like. He didn't. Maybe he already knew I'd say, "Marlboro Light 100's."

 

In the Car:

 

Unlit cigarette in his hand, he sat in my passenger seat, squirming around for his lighter.  "It's gone."  "It's not gone, you're probably sitting on it." "Check." He pushed his legs, lifting his butt off the seat; I felt around underneath him. "Nope."  " See, gone." "Maybe it fell on the floor."  I leaned over him and reached under his seat, accidentally knocking the cigarette out of his hand and onto the floor.  "Got it!" "Did you find my cigarette down there too?"  I handed him both. 

 

He pulled out his pack of cigarettes and placed the one I dropped back in, filter-side down.  I looked at him quizzically as he took out a different cigarette and lit it.  "What's that about? Is that the bad one now because I dropped it?" "No, it's my lucky cigarette now." I didn't follow.  "If I drop a cigarette, or in this case if someone else drops my cigarette, and it's something I want to remember, I flip it over and smoke that one last. Now when I eventually smoke the last one in this pack, it'll remind me of sitting here with you."  "And you want to remember that?"  "Of course I do."

 

In a Text Message:

 

Him: This new commute is killing me.  I didn't think I was this out of shape. 

Me: Those city blocks can be long.

Him: Yeah.  I want to quit smoking.

Me: Do you?

Him: I really do, but it's going to suck.

Me: Yeah, I know; it's hard.

Him: Ha! Since when are you an addict?