He is a cigarette sandwiched between her lips, the lighted end burning in the dark like a lone firefly. His smoke circles in the air, gathering around her, only to be swept away by a late October breeze. She takes one last drag before chucking him. He lands on a puddle and immediately dies out.
His light is no more.
She sniffs her hand and frowns. Awful, she thinks. Goddamn awful, the smell he leaves on her fingers every fucking time. On her clothes. On her hair. And, oh, on her pretty little mouth too, of course. She shrugs off the thought. After all, one shower, one wash, and one brush are all it takes to doff his lingering stench.
But he is more than just white paper rolled into a stick, filled with nicotine and tar. Sometimes he is methamphetamine, sometimes he is cannabis. Sometimes he is ethanol going by some fancy names such as Kajmir, Midori, and Fior d'Alpi. Sometimes he is libido.
He is a vice.
And she is ready to quit.
And it should be fucking easy. Twenty one days is all it takes to break a habit, wise and not-so-wise womenandmen say, and twenty one days is not even a month. So, yes, quitting him should be painless. She will, for twenty one days and beyond, pretend he never existed until her body, too, is convinced. And then she will not need him. And then she will stop craving his feel, his taste.
And then, perhaps, she would be free.
If only the wreck he had made inside her could as well be so easily eradicated as the wisps of smoke coming from his lighted end, she would be free.
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