Nicotine Routine

He couldn't remember when exactly it had heppened. But at some point, it had become a routine.

Just sitting there, slouched against the wicker back, legs spread out onto the sidewalk in front of him, just watching. Not looking for anything in particular. Soaking it all in. It really was a wonderful way to start each morning. In his left hand there was a cappuccino, dark and frothy. Brewed perfectly. Its heat radiating through the porcelain mug into his skin. And in his right, dangling over the arm of the chair, almost scraping the concrete, was a cigarette. Always a Marlboro Red. He refused to smoke anything else.

There was something so smooth about taking a drag from the filter and washing down the smoke with a sip of expresso - letting it mix inside of his chest before exhaling. Watching it drift out into the morning air, swept away by the breeze of a passing car.

The more he sat, the more he noticed. Of course there were the regulars. The older gentleman who sat a few chairs down from him, drinking his own cup of coffee and puffing away on Pall Malls. They rarely spoke, keeping it short when they did, but usually relied on a brief nod of the head. By now he knew all the children that strolled by in their tiny pockets and cliques - most by name, just by listening. They'd bounce by, like clockwork every morning. He usually smiled and waved - making sure not to take a drag as they passed, careful not to taint their lungs. He loved watching the different deliveries arrive up and down the street. Buns to the sandwich shops. Fresh produce to the corner market.

By the time the his cappuccino was gone and the cigarette had burned down to the filter, his body was awake - tingling from the mixture of nicotine and caffeine, ready to start on the day. As he made his way down the street, he'd turn and wave back to the owner of the cafe, wishing him well and letting him know he'd be back tomorrow - the whole time wondering who's routine he was about the walk through.