Smokes and Scotch

She’s complaining yet again. Damn it, I didn’t know what the problem was with her. Her voice was always something that I had enjoyed and despised at the same time. She wouldn’t shut up about the smallest of things and it never made sense to me that everything I did was annoying to her. But as the years rolled on, I was becoming annoyed with her, all the time.

But I still loved her. I believe I always would.

There she was, writing in that damn diary of hers that she seemed to cherish more than life itself. Perhaps it was her escape? It sure seemed like it to me but I didn’t care enough to ask her about it. She needed her privacy even if she invaded mine. I never did complain about it as much as she complained about my escape.

Of course, she said mine was ‘supposedly’ more harmful than hers but everyone has their own preferences. She complained about the smoke that came from my ‘cancer sticks’ as she calls them, she said they were going to kill me, I was going to die at an early age because of the numerous packs that I smoke every day. I didn’t see how they’d kill me, they were just tobacco-filled sticks, they couldn’t pick up a knife and stab me, they couldn’t reach for a gun and blow my brains out unlike the pair of hands that she had and that would do so if they wanted to.

But if we’re talking scientific terms, I’ve only heard that lung cancer kills people, so you see, cigarettes don’t kill people, lung cancer does. And it hasn’t been completely proven that cigarettes cause lung cancer so why couldn’t I just enjoy the things that gave me a small amount of pleasure that I receive when I wrap my lips around that filter and take a long drag. I could almost moan at the taste sometimes.

And then there’s the other helper that allows my escape. Perhaps this is a bit of an overkill but who doesn’t enjoy a good stiff drink every once in awhile? It just makes relaxing that much easier. A bit of a burn at the beginning but eventually it smoothes out. My mind feels a little hazy but aside from that, a glass doesn’t really make me completely drunk.

So here I am, sitting at my desk while she’s laying on the bed, on her stomach with her old faded book opened in front of her and her hand is moving down the lines of the page with words about whatever. I’m reaching for the pack of smokes that resides in my top drawer and slip one in between my lips and light it up. The first drag was always one that I hated. It seemed bitter. But it gets better with the second drag and then the third and then so on.

I set it down in the ashtray long enough for me to get a glass with a few ice cubes and then I grab that bottle filled with the copper-colored liquid. Just a small amount will do for this evening. Getting wasted is a waste of time and a waste of good whiskey. After all, who enjoys getting completely shit-faced anyway?

I take the first sip and it burns my tongue and then my throat as I swallow but it’s a desirable burn. Just like the cigarette but it takes a few more sips to get used to it but it gets better. Just give it time.

The long ash-end of the cigarette makes me grab it and draw in another drag before tipping it against the glass ashtray. I take another sip of the Scotch and I sit back in my desk chair and begin to relax. I can already feel the words beginning to leave my lips, I can hear them but my mind’s drifting. It’s not an effect of the alcohol just yet; it’s just how I always become when I’m relaxing. I let the drifting take me wherever the hell it wants to.

It ends too quickly though. And I realize why. Her head is no longer down with her attention on her book. She’s glaring at me, those lips perked up into a pout and they’re moving. She’s complaining again, her pen is tapping irritably against her book and it’s already making my head ache. But instead of just telling her to ‘piss off’ like I have so many other times, I simply smile.

I wouldn’t doubt that it looks like a sadistic smirk of an insane person but I don’t care.

She questions me again on why I’m drinking and smoking. I’m ruining her concentration but she doesn’t care if she’s ruining mine. So I make her an offer, I set my glass down on the desk and take one last drag from my cigarette and crush it in the ashtray. Slowly, I make it over to the bed and press one knee against the bed cover but I’m not going to sit down just yet.

Her eyes are so wide and curious when I gaze down at her, the pout is still on her lips and it’s so cute that I wouldn’t want it to be wiped off anyway. My smile is still on my face yet the curves of it has softened. I just stare at her. Her tank top strap is hanging off her shoulder, her silky tan skin looks so smooth that I place my hand on it and it feels amazing under my hand; her skin is so warm and soft.

Then I glance down at her book, the pen is resting in the crease of the book and I see her sloppy handwriting that I couldn’t read even if I was thinking straight. I’m surprised she’s even able to read it.

She catches my gaze and quickly flips it shut. I spout off words after that, she was writing what she imagined or rather whatever she had to write to let her escape the world so I’m speaking what my mind was coming up with just moments ago before she interrupted me. My words confuse her at first and she swears that I’m drunk but I’m not. I’m just allowing anything that comes to mind to come out my lips. It’s how I’ve come to get so much pleasure out of those packs of smokes and that Scotch, it makes me feel almost at peace.

And without a second thought, I lean down and press a kiss to her lips. It wiped of that cute pout but it replaced it with a soft smile that probably resembled the one that’s still on my lips before her face wrinkled up at the taste of whiskey on my lips. She’ll get over it though. With the second kiss, I know she’ll get over it.