I’ve been quit for years. Just occasionally I miss the motions – not the ritual, the oral – breathing in that sweet fug, anticipating the satisfaction that courses with the blood to the very tips of your fingers. Those ones holding the cigarette to your grasping lips.
It was after the bar had closed, that tricky hour where lawlessness abides. One of those times when management locks the doors and shuts out the night, secret ashtrays appearing suddenly from secret cubbies and packs getting slapped resolutely on the top of the bar where, after all, they belong. Continue reading