I started smoking again. Just at night so far, he says nervously. I get by in the day. Having something in my mouth, maybe that's it, taking that physical ache away.
That gnawing pain. Fuck it, hey. Give me a fag, take that away.
Tuesday after a pot weekend. I was lucky to make it this far, quite frankly. What did you think was going to happen? I’d make it through on good intensions and the fresh air blowing in from the southeast?
Smiles and happy boys?
Oh please, if you swallow that one you are too naive for this world.
I paced outside the tobacconist trying to talk myself out of it, trying to think of all the reasons why I shouldn’t? I wouldn’t have been surprised if they thought I was casing the joint and called the police to have me taken away, but of course they didn’t.
And eventually I gave in and walked right into that shop and said, “I’ll have a packet of gold 25s please.”
And the good man behind the counter handed them over with out really mentioning a word. You see, I gave him a big note not really knowing how much they were going to cost and he just dumped the change into the palm of my hand without an utterance at all.
I ripped the clear plastic off and devoured one of them like a starving child might devour a loaf of bread.
And then my head spun and I thought I might fall over, and then I felt so much better.
No comments:
Post a Comment