Kissing Fate

They had always been a part of him for so long. Seeped into his pores. Wedged itself beneath his fingernails. Become his musk.

And to be honest, he wasn't even sure he could do without them anymore.

He knew they weren't good for him. His family had told him - incessantly. Buzzing in his ear. Doctors had warned him that every time he lit one, he was taking hours, days, even years off of his life. He could hear parents warning their children of the dangers of smoking as they passed him on the street - imagining what he looked like to them. A gnarled an old man. Hunched over. Skin worn and wrinkled, like an old wallet - creases formed long ago. His beard had become wild years prior, sprouting in any way it wanted. Shuffling along, legs barely bending anymore. He was the perfect example to show to children - cigarette always in hand, looking frail as ever.

It was all misleading. Even with his fingernails stained yellow, roots sprouting only grey and white, and tobacco occasionally stuck in his teeth, he felt as young as ever. There was something about a cigarette between his lips that brought back his youth. Made him feel whole. He didn't know if it was the feeling of the smoke diving into his lungs and swirling around inside of his chest or the tickling sensation it left in the back of his throat as he exhaled. Maybe it was the nicotine that was delivered into his blood with every drag - seeping in and numbing any stress and concern that had built throughout the day. He liked to think it was as simple as feeling cool. Like James Dean.

He'd never forget his first pull. It was hand rolled by his friend, behind the school back when he was a kid - stolen from his father's smoking cabinet. Neither of them knew what they were doing except for what they had watched their parents do. Rolling the tobacco between their fingers, licking the paper. It all looked so simple. But their end result was nothing short of a disaster. Still smokable, but a disaster. And it was rough. He had seen all the older kids smoking without any issues so he wasn't expecting it to invade his lungs the way it did - sending his body into a coughing fit. But after that first pull, when it finally hit his head and he felt like he was in the clouds for a split second, he was hooked. At that age he felt cool. Like a rebel. Adults he didn't know scowled at him on the street. He just inhaled and blew out a large puff in their direction. What were they going to do.

As the years passed, he could tell each new light was tacking its toll. His breaths had become shallower. He no longer could get the stink of ash out of his clothes or hair. Every morning he'd scrub as hard has he could in the shower, but the shampoo would only hide the smell for so long - before the soot made its way back to the surface. If he went to long without one between his lips he became agitated and aggressive. He couldn't fall asleep without them.

But it didn't matter. He loved them too much. How they nestled themselves between the tips of his fingers. The feeling of their box against his leg. The cool menthol against his lips. It was an affair that had always treated him well.

They were his mistresses. And they were killing him one kiss at a time.