Young Writers Society

Click.

Dammit.

Click. Click. Click.

Click.

At last, a spark takes, and my BIC lighter lights. Damn cheap made-in-China brand. Damn cold fingers. I'm bad enough with lighters when I can actually feel the gear biting my skin with every "click". Steven, my boyfriend, would be so amused watching me struggle right now.

Gingerly, I hold the tiny flame up to the cigarette tucked between my lips. The movement, however small, is sudden enough for the winter air to snuff it out.

Another half-dozen frustrated clicks, another half-hearted BIC spark. 

How does this part even work? I'm pretty sure you have to suck on the filter while you light it, though I'm not sure why that makes a difference. Shouldn't the paper and dry leaves burn either way?

I slowly inhale through the roll and hold the lighter to the end for a couple seconds. Releasing the flame, I exhale... No white smoke, no telltale red glow at the far end of the cigarette.

Again, I'm grateful to be alone in the frigid parking lot. There's nobody to point and laugh at my failure to perform something so simple and common as lighting a cigarette.

I briefly consider dropping the chewed, black-tipped stick in a nearby snow pile and throwing away the rest of the pack. I'm a singer- a choir teacher, for God's sake -and I've never even been tempted to smoke until tonight. Why the hell would I start?

That's why you're doing it here, now: it'll help you through the night. Nobody can see you. You can puff one out, keep your shit together for the night, and nobody will know. Except you.

Rationalization. Justification. I know it isn't the greatest self pep talk, but it's good enough to convince me to fumble the lighter to life one more time and take one more, deeper, paper breath against the miniature hellfire. This time, it takes.

I expected it to taste terrible. Bitter and green and savory, like it smells. How can something so pungent taste so...bland? And why am I oddly disappointed? I release the tiny sip of smoke I'd kept trapped in my mouth. I'm keeping my tongue pressed against my palate for now, I've seen too many movie scenes where a person's first smoke ends up with them choking and gagging. Start slow.

I consider the cigarette for a few seconds. The moment had been anticlimactic, certainly, but then I'm not looking for bells and fanfare. I'm looking for a stand-in until I can refill my Xanax.

I raise it back to my mouth and take a couple more experimental mouth-breaths on the filter. No big deal. I take a deep, slow breath into my gut. It's the kind of breath you're trained to take when you learn how to sing, but instead of preparing for a long musical phrase, I'm just absorbing he cold and the fire and the nicotine. Once again, I'm reminded of the wrongness of what I'm doing; I was made to sing, not smoke!

I could lose my job for doing this. I could ruin my career. Fuck, even Stevie, who's been smoking since before I met him, would be disappointed in me.

And yet, as what I can only assume to be the 'buzz' sets in, I return the half-gone cigarette and, almost hungrily, finished the thing off.

Stomping the butt into the pavement, I stand up from where my ass has been warming the hood of my car. As I turn to open the driver door the ground suddenly warps in front of me, like it does when you put on a cheap pair of sunglasses. I stumble against the window and grasp for the door latch. 

Nobody ever said anything about smoking making you dizzy! Is this normal? Should I only have smoked half a cigarette? Is it possible, if you're small enough, to overdose on nicotine? Oh God, am I gonna puke? 

I manage to get the door open and ease into the seat. Lowering my head into my hands I breathe slowly and try to shake off the mother of all head rushes. 

Once the ground becomes firm and flat again, I check my phone. I'm running late, I'm supposed to pick up Steven for a movie in a little more than fifteen minutes. Not quite enough time to change my clothes and brush my teeth. 

At least the nicotine is working. The 20-degree December night doesn't seem so bitter. The harsh edges around my mind feel softer. Bills due next week are just bills, not the apocalypse.  My heart rate is a meandering fox, not a rabid wolf.

But so much for no one knowing.