The Joy of Smoking

The rain beats a rhythm on the street; it makes it difficult to concentrate while walking, the deserted streets echoing the meter of the falling rain at 3.30 am.

I inhale, the taste of smoke thick and heavy in my lungs, the taste of clove on my lips.

I exhale, billowing smoke like an industrial chimney against the grey cityscape in my immediate sight; my boots angle and slide on the slick cobblestone of the alley.

Moving under a roof, I save my precious cancerstick, keeping the fire from being murdered. A gust of cold wind hits me, amplified by its abuse down the walls between these two buildings; as it hits, I shrink into my coat, pushing my hands into my pockets, lowering my head to protect my exposed face.

The ash falls like a smog-filled snow, before hitting the ruts between the stones, getting washed away by the frigid, suicidal rain.


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