A SHORT STORY INSPIRED BY A CIGARETTE BUTT ON THE STREET

Peter was frustrated. He looked up towards the ceiling, leaning back in his chair; its cheap plastic lattice squeaked as it flexed and strained under his weight. Feeling the stretch, he sat quickly forward, plonking his elbows back on the table. He looked down at the packet of cigarettes in front of him. Smoking kills. Oh eventually it probably will. He looked closely at the gruesome photos of a tumoured tongue. Could do without that though. He sneaked open the packet and ruefully stroked the cigarettes. A few moments went by. He reached for his coffee, taking a strong gulp, and cast his mind back to sitting in a pub as a student, so young, what problems did he have then? He remembered the pleasure of smoking inside. Preferably over a nice cold pint, with friends. He shook his head quietly and set his cup down. “Just popping out” he called to the woman behind the counter. She nodded.

Outside it was damp and dark after the recent rain. He pulled up his collar against the autumn chill and fished around in his jacket pocket for his lighter. He lit a cigarette. The first deep breath is always the best, it tasted of sweet satisfaction, and relief. It’s all downhill after that. The self-loathing and feeling of disgust increased with each drag. He perched on the window ledge of the cafe, making sure to sit far enough under the awning to miss the drips of rain still falling down from its edge. He took one long last drag, feeling the burning heat closing in on his lip. Inhaling, he peered back through the window at his table – his coffee would be getting cold. He exhaled slowly. He was aware that his frustration had gone, and instead, a queasy peace had replaced it – he knew it was only down to the cigarette. He really needed to sort out his life. Better go. He flicked the remains of the cigarette away and went back inside.

© Alexandra Noel – All rights reserved. 25th March 2022