Nicotine Distraction

Inhale.

Ryland can’t think anymore.

He’s so lost in the feeling of the smoke threading its way in and out of the cavities of his throat and lungs that there’s no point of thinking.

Actually, he’s focusing so hard on that feeling of the smoke and not thinking of anything else that his head hurts like a bastard. If he lets his thoughts veer away from anything but the simple inhalation and the feeling of the tar literally coating his innards, he’ll cry. He knows he’ll cry, and he’ll be damned if he’s about to let himself cry.

Exhale.

There’s a crumpled pack of Marlboros lying next to him on the table, each and every last one of the cancer sticks diminished to nothing but the orange filter. He’s been lost in that endless pattern of air intake and air release for an hour and a half now; letting the smoke crush both his lungs and suppress his thoughts.

Inhale.

He’s staring out the window, lost in the flood of people on the bustling street beneath him, following this person and that until his eyes glaze over.

Exhale.

Words appear in the cloud of fumes and they proclaim the truth, the truth that he’s been trying so hard to avoid.

She’s gone.

And he cries.