old flame

a complete son of a bitch i once called a very good friend picked me up at the airport once and found me outside smoking with a stranger.

he pulled up, looked over at us, shook his head with that big stupid smile of his and said,

always making friends wherever you go.

he was right.

the bastard.

smoking was good for that.

you could be in any city, know nobody, have nothing in common with anybody, and all you had to do was find the little dark corner our healthy society had grudgingly set aside for the filthy.

there they were.

shoulders hunched. half ashamed. half freezing. trying not to stand too close to the door.

the smokers.

my people.

you asked for a light or somebody asked you for one.

sometimes i didn’t even have cigarettes. i was never much of a proper smoker. mostly after a rotten day of travel, or late at night when i’d had enough of everybody, which, come to think of it, was often enough.

you bummed one.

lit up.

and suddenly there was something to do with your hands and no reason to look directly at each other and conversation became easy.

where you headed?

flight delayed?

you from here?

this fucking weather.

nothing important.

which is sometimes the nicest kind of talking.

i quit for good.

there are worse things to lose.

still, i was waiting for the shuttle the other day when this greasy little hippie girl came walking over.

she looked enough like me that i suppose she figured she’d try.

you got a lighter?

no, i said.

her face fell.

but i’ve got matches.

i always carry matches in my travel backpack.

some habits survive the thing they were meant for.

she smiled, took one, struck it, and leaned into the flame.

she looked at me for a second. you look like someone i knew once.

she was a really good person, she added quickly, like she was worried i might be offended by the comparison.

i winked. well hey, who cares, right? she could have been a jerk as long as she was pretty.

she laughed.

then i smelled it.

is that a clove cigarette?

yeah.

she held out the pack.

want one?

and there it was.

that little hot second.

not nicotine.

something worse.

memory.

a kitchen twenty years ago.

college.

billie holiday coming out of somebody’s speakers.

spaghetti on the stove.

kyle smoking cloves while he cooked. kyle is kylee now.

his roommate also used to smoke clove cigarettes, but his name's the same.

there were tapestries on the walls and strange little objects everywhere and records stacked around the room and after dinner we’d sit around in low light watching some foreign film nobody completely understood and talking intellectual-type shit like we had recently discovered thought.

we smoked all night.

we were young enough to believe this was a life instead of just a room we happened to be passing through.

the girl held the cigarette toward me.

i wanted it.

not because i wanted to smoke it.

because for one second i wanted that kitchen back.

no thanks, i said.

she pulled her hand back fast.

almost embarrassed.

like maybe i had judged her.

like maybe i’d become one of those people who look at smokers with the solemn disappointment usually reserved for shoplifters and public masturbators.

then she started explaining herself.

said she was trying to quit.

said she’d quit cigarettes, mostly, but couldn’t stop vaping.

she talked too quickly.

the way people do when they think you’re standing above them and they need to explain why they’re still down there.

i told her i understood.

and i did.

when something tastes sweet sometimes it can be hard to stop even when it’s killing you.

the shuttle had pulled in.

we went our separate ways.

and that was it.

no cigarette. no new friend. no kitchen. no billie holiday. no son of a bitch waiting at the curb telling me i could make friends anywhere.

just a book of matches still sitting in my backpack

waiting for somebody who needs a light.