I learned to roll cigarettes from my father, and a Romanian girl I taught to shoot. Delia, the International Super-Spy, who rolls the tightest cigarettes I’ve ever seen. I’m not so good at it. I lack practice, I smoke cigarettes so rarely. But tonight, I am a whole host of bad habits.
I drag hard on the cold butt, trying to liven its dead ash, so I can “monkey fuck” the one I just rolled. With no such luck, I hunt for a lighter.
I draw heavily, thick smoke rising from above the lighters flame. I drop the tool, letting it slip from the stiff fingers of my right hand. The hand aches, and fights at being opened. I force it closed again, sore tendons arguing, swelling. I need to climb easier, next time. Next time, I need to not roll cigarettes sloppily and smoke them too fast. I need to not mix whiskey in my coffee, stealing sips straight from the flask mouth. Next time. But for tonight, I am willing host to all of my bad habits. I relish in the nicotine, the alcohol, and playing my aching right hand across the keyboard. It cannot close, or hold weight, but it can lift cigarettes and write. And that’s good enough for now. I’ll worry about the rest in the morning.