Lingering Fumes

An empty packet of Gauloises, black coffee, a croque monsieur. An aromatic café breakfast in the Montmartre. Later I switch to Camels, a bumpy ride to seek out a friend in the sixth arrondissement, that night I left my Dunhill lighter on her bedstand. The cigarette lighter had value, I had haggled for it in Malacca, eventually a young Hindu guy reluctantly parted with it as if selling his own grandmother. Malaysia smoked lucky Strikes, sold as single sticks, you could buy them at any age, they kept them in a glass jar on the counter like candy. Our generation thought it too high a risk to die old, and yet here we are still lingering by the La Brea tar pits looking for smoke signs.