One Cigarette

I knew a man who smoked one cigarette each day, mid-afternoon, accompanied by a cup of black coffee. Beyond feeding his ego, control was his raison d’etre, so he probably did smoke just the one. Not so with me. I was far too gone, reveling in excess on several fronts. Cigarettes were my shield, my pointer, my distance-keeper, my comfort in the evening with one or more neat scotches, and, of course, my addiction. I’ve left behind that obsession, yet I am plagued by a particular cigarette memory: that sweet after-sex smoke. I miss that singular pleasure, but then, life requires loss. I suppose I could try it one more time, just the one cigarette to see what might happen. But that wouldn’t work. Unlike my unpleasant one-a-day associate, my self-control requires vigilance, else it dies with a vengeance that I’m ill-prepared to manage. Given that, a smile of recollection will do nicely.