Getaway
HE'S A SMOKER.
Leroy Samuels smokes cigarettes.
Only he doesn’t smoke cigarettes like any normal person. He’s a closet smoker. Or, well, a balcony smoker.
I’ve only ever caught him smoking at night, on his balcony, in the dark. Of the times we’ve met outside of the confines of his second story apartment, he’s never smoked. He’s never touched a cigarette or a lighter and never once made a comment about either. I don’t think he wants people to know that he does it. Actually, I’m pretty sure he doesn’t even realize that I know he does it. I’ve never technically been with him when he lights one up, you see.
Sometimes I can smell the smoke through my open window when the breeze is dead enough. When I sit out on my own balcony and rest my head against the cool, iron bars I can sometimes find him below and a little to the left on his own little expanse, the top burning bright as he sucks at a cigarette, his left elbow resting out the window or on the railing. He doesn’t smoke in his truck and he doesn’t smoke in his apartment; only on his small balcony, so similar to all the others hanging from our building, only accessible from the small windows exiting our living areas.
That’s where Leroy Samuels smokes. In the dark, when the breeze is scarce and the night is growing heavy. Where he thinks no one can see him and no one would ever suspect to catch him, Leroy Samuels, smoking anything, because Leroy Samuels doesn’t smoke cigarettes. He smells like the woods and has fresh breath, his voice is smooth and his cough is clear. He’s not a smoker. Oh no, no he’s not. But he is smoking tonight.
I sometimes think I should say something to him about it. His smoking in private, I mean. I catch him enough. I could easily whisper his name right now from my place leaning out my window and let it travel to him in the darkness. I could act like it was an accident, that I’d never noticed it before and just ask when he had taken up the habit. I could make this an innocent greeting followed by my surprise of finding him sitting below, the tip of a cigarette burning red from his lips.
I don’t say anything, though. For multiple reasons. I’ve never really seen Leroy angry and I don’t want to. I have a feeling that, despite how innocent accidently coming upon him like this could be, he’d be upset. I don’t want to make him feel like his secret is out. I don’t want him to start smoking in public or get angry with me or feel uncomfortable.
But mostly, it’s because I know that he does it for a reason. You don’t just smoke four dollar cigarettes in private because it’s fun. Otherwise, he’d be doing it all the time. There are things about him I don’t know. I know he gets stressed about things: his job and his family and his past. I know very little about where he came from and how he feels. His scars are invisible to my eyes.
I don’t want to make Leroy feel as if he’s lost control of whatever he finds stability over when he flicks his lighter and breathes the smoke. Control is hard to find; I know that. I wouldn’t want anyone to take it from me, either. Which is why even though I can see him, a dark mass barely illuminated by a small orange light, I don’t say anything. I just turn and duck quietly back into my own window, pulling the glass down behind me.
Only he doesn’t smoke cigarettes like any normal person. He’s a closet smoker. Or, well, a balcony smoker.
I’ve only ever caught him smoking at night, on his balcony, in the dark. Of the times we’ve met outside of the confines of his second story apartment, he’s never smoked. He’s never touched a cigarette or a lighter and never once made a comment about either. I don’t think he wants people to know that he does it. Actually, I’m pretty sure he doesn’t even realize that I know he does it. I’ve never technically been with him when he lights one up, you see.
Sometimes I can smell the smoke through my open window when the breeze is dead enough. When I sit out on my own balcony and rest my head against the cool, iron bars I can sometimes find him below and a little to the left on his own little expanse, the top burning bright as he sucks at a cigarette, his left elbow resting out the window or on the railing. He doesn’t smoke in his truck and he doesn’t smoke in his apartment; only on his small balcony, so similar to all the others hanging from our building, only accessible from the small windows exiting our living areas.
That’s where Leroy Samuels smokes. In the dark, when the breeze is scarce and the night is growing heavy. Where he thinks no one can see him and no one would ever suspect to catch him, Leroy Samuels, smoking anything, because Leroy Samuels doesn’t smoke cigarettes. He smells like the woods and has fresh breath, his voice is smooth and his cough is clear. He’s not a smoker. Oh no, no he’s not. But he is smoking tonight.
I sometimes think I should say something to him about it. His smoking in private, I mean. I catch him enough. I could easily whisper his name right now from my place leaning out my window and let it travel to him in the darkness. I could act like it was an accident, that I’d never noticed it before and just ask when he had taken up the habit. I could make this an innocent greeting followed by my surprise of finding him sitting below, the tip of a cigarette burning red from his lips.
I don’t say anything, though. For multiple reasons. I’ve never really seen Leroy angry and I don’t want to. I have a feeling that, despite how innocent accidently coming upon him like this could be, he’d be upset. I don’t want to make him feel like his secret is out. I don’t want him to start smoking in public or get angry with me or feel uncomfortable.
But mostly, it’s because I know that he does it for a reason. You don’t just smoke four dollar cigarettes in private because it’s fun. Otherwise, he’d be doing it all the time. There are things about him I don’t know. I know he gets stressed about things: his job and his family and his past. I know very little about where he came from and how he feels. His scars are invisible to my eyes.
I don’t want to make Leroy feel as if he’s lost control of whatever he finds stability over when he flicks his lighter and breathes the smoke. Control is hard to find; I know that. I wouldn’t want anyone to take it from me, either. Which is why even though I can see him, a dark mass barely illuminated by a small orange light, I don’t say anything. I just turn and duck quietly back into my own window, pulling the glass down behind me.